The train at lunchtime was surprisingly quiet, until at Downtown station the doors slipped open and in gushed a flood of office folk, homogenous in their collared shirts and polyester dresses and little pouches filled with, probably, phones and credit cards and cigarettes and maybe a mint or two. In a few seconds, the hiss and drone of the static carriage was completely drowned out by a chorus of chatter and shuffling feet. It was so sudden and jarring that I put my book down for a minute just to take it all in. It reminded me of something, but I struggled to think what. That’s it – this scene brought to mind another: one of a flock of birds descending noisily upon a large tree, returning home for the day from the roofs and pavements of the scorched city, drowning out the rustling of leaves with a cacophony of shrill cries. I noticed the middle aged office lady in front of me was wearing a rather unusual bangle, comprising largish, watery spheres of emerald, onyx, red ochre and the sandy yellow of a peanut shell. The crowd stood in small groups of twos or threes with arms folded and immersed in conversation for just two stops, then, as if led away by the pied piper, they all amalgamated into a single creature once more and flowed back out the doors, doubtless returning to near-identical office setups.
As for me, I opened my book where I’d stuck a finger in as a bookmark and sank back into my own little world, happy to be back in my own peaceful bubble.
When did dust become the devil? This is a question for me more than anyone else because I am quite the germ freak and a stickler for cleanliness. The baby’s sensitive skin has sent my already frenzied nerves into overdrive, generating a latent anxiety which manifests as a constant need to keep things as clean and dust-free as possible. Perhaps that is all well and good and necessary. Today though, while I was making my rounds across the house dusting all horizontal surfaces, I happened to recall reading Mary Douglas’ ‘Purity and Danger’ at uni, in which she famously posits that ‘dirt is matter out of place’. It’s one of those concepts that are so simple, yet powerful. Soil in a garden is a-ok. Soil that clings to your shoes as you leave the garden and subsequently dislodges itself onto the kitchen floor is not-ok. It is dirt. It must be removed so that a state of cleanliness can be restored. You didn’t mind it in the garden. You didn’t mind it on your shoe. But you very much mind it on the kitchen floor. I remember finding the idea very profound, and still did today as it floated back up from the depths of my memory, but it didn’t change the fact that I continued to fervently hunt down every last speck of dust in my house anyway.
Why does acquisition feel so good? Pondered in context of eyeing a pretty little Sezane handbag but wrestling as usual with the thought of parting with a slightly painful amount of cash. Just the thought of owning something new and coveted is enough to stimulate feelings of joy – why so? Not just with things, either. Acquiring time. Clout. Relationships (people). Experiences. We are all so greedy for more of everything, but in a way that feels perfectly human. Is this because capitalistic tendencies flow through our veins? Or is the drive to acquire stuff simply primordial instinct? It’s worth noting here that midway through the pedicure I went on Shopee and bought 3 pairs of lace socks that I absolutely do not need.
Been spending a few afternoons in the CBD area going to and from barre classes. I usually have just enough time to grab a quick lunch and a coffee before or after class, which coincides with the whole world’s lunch hour. The CBD is such a strange place. It’s crowded, and what a homogenous crowd it is. As I sweep my gaze around Amoy Food Centre, every young office chap in a collared shirt and black pants with spectacles and a lanyard draped around his neck blends into the next. The women are mostly well-dressed, but all in the same way, in polyester Love Bonito dresses and with long brown hair flowing down their backs. Every other person’s face illuminated by the mobile screen they’re staring into. The crowd moving in pulses to navigate a traffic junction, each person’s speed mitigated by the person ahead of them, shuffling along in a manner that suggests that nothing about this is new or novel, that they’ve been heading to lunch in this way everyday since time immemorial.
As a teacher, I used to envy friends who worked in the CBD – envied them their air-conditioned offices (which meant you could actually dress nice and put make up on without either being ruined by a deluge of sweat) and fancy lunch meetings and plethora of food options. Unless you step out or order something in, lunch options on a school day can be dismal, to say the least. However, after a few days of eating extremely mediocre (and expensive) hawker food at Amoy, I think I can confidently say that I would much rather eat the yong tau foo from the school canteen everyday than this.
The coffee options are far better in the CBD, of course. And I’ve discovered – much to the detriment of my barre efforts – that Fat Kid bakery and their delicious donuts are just round the corner. What is work without sweet reward? I hide in shame from my weighing scale. Goodnight!
Not hard to imagine the brainstorming session that went into the naming of this clinic.
The baby has started solids, which was exciting for approximately 2 hours until we realised that the shock to her gut meant waking almost every hour through the night from discomfort. The poor thing – seems a little early to learn that sometimes what you love can do you dirty.
Anyway, there’s only so much banana and avocado that a very small person can manage, which means I found myself with about 3/4 of an avocado and some bananas on the speed train to rot-terdam. Yesterday I decided to dust off my baking tools and spin the leftovers into avocado banana muffins – a great idea, in theory. As I tossed the ingredients together I felt very healthy and winsome and motherly and resourceful, even (perhaps especially so) while spooning vomit-coloured batter into a muffin tin. Only a sprinkle of sugar, no butter, all the good stuff – yes yes, in this household we shall eat clean, and antioxidants shall course through our bodies while we are busy living to a hundred, and our gut health shall be the envy of many. Health, wealth, hwealth – all ours to enjoy.
Perhaps the beginning of the fall was that 6:30am, pre-caffeinated me had spooned not baking powder, but baking soda into the mix. I realised this about 5 minutes after chucking them in the oven. Somehow or rather, they still managed to rise beautifully. Encouraged by their formal perfection I eagerly tucked into one while it was still warm. It tasted green. Not inedible, but definitely questionable enough to get a good grimace out of me. If I were to tackle these again, I would add 5x the amount of sugar, sub the avocado with butter, and basically make a whole different recipe.
Well, at least they looked good on Instagram. Not all that glitters is gold, friends. ✨
I’m currently reading The Convenience Store by the Sea by Sonoko Michida and am enjoying it far more than I expected to.
I knew I would like it, because I find Japanese slice-of-life content irresistible, but beyond being just another pleasurable read, the story, though simple, cuts quite deeply into the essence of modern life, particularly the pervasive loneliness of it all. Michida also touches frankly on the imperfect aspects of Japanese culture and society, including the oppressive patriarchy, school bullying, and growing old alone. As the title lays out, the story revolves around a small town konbini, interestingly called ‘Tenderness’. ‘7/11’, ‘Family Mart’ and … ‘Tenderness’? An odd choice of name for a convenience store. Perhaps a victim of translation quirks.
The characters are assembled as a cross-section of society; appropriately so, since a convenience store is where most people in town are likely to, if not congregate, at least pass through regularly. Young; middle aged; old. Married; single; grappling with puppy love. Satisfied with life; disgruntled and pining. Ambitious and hopeful; world-weary and beaten down. All brought together by daily essentials and mouthwatering konbini delicacies like curry dons, strawberry parfaits and egg sandwiches.
(If you’ve been to Japan you’ll probably know that konbini foods are a cuisine unto themselves, and often are of a much higher quality than you’d expect from anything out a fridge or straight off a shelf. I myself fell hopelessly in love with a banana crepe from 7/11 when I was there last summer and still think about it often.)
Reading in Ya Kun this morning over breakfast, I looked up and realised that the scene around me wasn’t all that different from the story playing out in the book. The shop was manned by 4 staff – a man in his 60s, a woman around the same age, and two young men. I wondered if they were a family, but that seemed too unlikely. One of the young guys took my order; he had kind eyes and an overgrown mullet dyed mahogany, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a squirrel. He and the older auntie took most of the orders, while the other young man mutely prepped toast sets. The older uncle was also working on food prep, but was anything but silent. He was constantly barking at the others in a gruff voice, but when I listened properly I realised he was actually being quite nice, like asking if the order-takers needed some help. There was a great warmth and camaraderie in the way they all worked together. I must have looked quite encumbered by the baby carrier because while everyone else had to pick up their food from the counter, the uncle specially brought mine to me, and even appeared again later with napkins. Both he and the auntie seemed very taken with the baby and would periodically send smiles her way. Glancing around, the customers were a mix of business executives, blue collar workers, and students. Some appeared to be regulars and exchanged greetings with the staff as they came and went. Then, a very pretty young woman wafted in. She must have been new to Singapore, because she was unfamiliar with the menu and, well, this is sort of our national breakfast. The uncle wasted no time and barked out a series of menu recommendations at her. Despite clearly not understanding a word of it, she smiled politely in return. Eventually she pointed at something on the menu and the uncle beamed triumphantly.
Convenience stores aren’t so much of a thing here, though I do recall many happy moments from my student days spent huddled at the back of a 7/11 with friends, eating cup noodles and gossiping. Daily essentials are generally more expensive in convenience stores than in supermarkets, so unless absolutely necessary, we get them elsewhere.
Breakfast joints, however, are probably our equivalent to the konbini culture in Japan. On the higher end of the scale, places like Ya Kun, Toast Box, Fun Toast – air-conditioned, reliable, fast, familiar. For something less predictable, there are the coffee shop or hawker centre breakfasts. Regardless of where you land, there’ll almost definitely be sets of kaya toast and coffee or tea being peddled. Singaporeans (myself included) are particular about the variations in taste, portion etc., but honestly, it’s hard to go wrong with something so simple. Even a bad toast set will offer just enough comfort to start the day decently well. At least, that’s what I think. Maybe I lack a more discerning palate, but I make up for it with a disproportionate tendency to romanticise the things I eat and love.
Bad idea to write this up at night, because guess what I’m dying to eat now? Time to go rifle through the fridge for a snack. Goodnight!
One of the things I’ve learnt since becoming a mother is that leaving the house with a baby is a muscle that must be built and exercised. The first time we took the bubs somewhere other than the doctor was to church, which should have been fairly straightforward. Aircon-ed car to aircon-ed hall to aircon-ed car and back, nothing too demanding – or so you would think. I spent the night before running through the schedule in my head – what time’s the feed? When to pump? Working backwards, when to feed? Do we need a swaddle? Socks? Pram? Carrier? Maybe we should just feed formula. Okay so we need the formula. And bottle(s). And warm water in a flask. Sanitizer? Wipes? Diapers? Changing pad? Change of clothes? On Sunday morning itself I spent a good hour and a half packing and preparing, until I was sweaty and exhausted. Needless to say I wasn’t the most absorbent of minds during the service itself, a problem that was only exacerbated by the baby rebelling against the pram and persistently threatening to fuss.
2.5 months on, I’ve definitely gotten better. My going-out muscle (maybe hers, too?) has had training enough for me to feel comfortable taking her out for an hour or two with minimum headache or fuss (of course, this ties in with the establishment of a more predictable schedule for feeds).
And so it is that for the past few mornings, around 10 I strap her into the carrier and trot off for breakfast and a bit of a stroll. Singapore has horrible weather and my baby has horrible skin (the ubiquitous monster that is eczema), so as far as possible I try to float from one aircon-ed space to the next. It’s a nice timing because she gets a cuddly carrier nap, and I get to have breakfast and be reminded that there is a society beyond the four walls of my apartment.
As I gradually shook off the anxieties of going out with a baby in tow, I’ve been able to experience some of its joys. Having her in the carrier is very nice and makes me feel like a koala or kangaroo, although my slightly harried pelvis does protest a bit (see previous post). With the carrier on, I’m also obliged to move at a glacial pace that is surely foreign to most able-bodied adults living in cosmopolitan cities. I go the ‘long way around’ to get to lifts, or to stay in the shade and shelter. Moving this way through brisk crowds, I feel like a boulder in a stream disrupting the flow, or a creaky old spaceship caught in a meteor shower. ‘Ambling,’ my husband called it, then quickly corrected himself, ‘more like wading, actually.’ A slightly laboured trek through imaginary thigh-high waters.
It’s not an unpleasant experience. Slowing down means I pay more attention to the world around me, instead of experiencing it in fast-forward mode like I usually do. People staring vacantly into space, or, more commonly, vacantly at their phones. Yves Saint Laurent espadrilles on the young office lady standing in front of me on the MRT. Colours and designs on manicured nails. Older couples sipping coffees across the table from each other, immersed in a comfortable silence (or boredom). Young couples, brimming with passion and excitement, hands all over each other. The skinny branches of a tree, brilliantly green, sparkling in the sun and rustled by a sudden breeze.
It’s been 32 years of milling about this tiny city, and yet there still are fresh things to see and discover. It just takes a slower pace, with or without a baby strapped to the chest.
Medium Delirium 