Because today’s a public holiday, Sunday night was without that familiar cramp in the neck from thinking about Monday’s workload, even though I actually have to work later in the arvo today.
A friend is visiting from DC, where she’s been working with the World Bank, at a totally unenviable job, where she gets to jet around to such horrible places as Vientiane, Dili, Nuku’alofa, Apia and every other Third World capital you could poke a stick at. No, I don’t envy her job at all.
As you can imagine, she gets really bored with Singapore really quickly. She arrived Thursday evening, and already she’s suffering urban island fever. So, it was up to the wife and I to think up something exciting for her to do. I suggested karaoke, the wife suggested arcade games. So, arcade games it was.
Sunday night at the Superbowl Superfunplace or somesuch was pretty quiet for a Sunday night, and we got to play some of the more popular games, like the use gun and shoot people one, and the drive car really fast one. My World Bank friend was very reluctant at first, but warmed up after she found her favourite game, the shoot the bubble one.
Then as we were skipping happily from one machine to another, a very familiar voice called out my name, and a hand was laid on my shoulder. Bugger. Gangsta from my gangsta past, I thought. Then I remembered I had forgotten that my old platoon mate actually owned the Superbowl Superfunplace. Then I remembered this platoon mate is the only person ever to have beaten the crap outta me.
The wife says my face was white as snow as I excused myself to join my old mate for a coffee in his backroom office.
Of course, nothing untoward happened, else I wouldn’t be here blogging. No, actually, if anything untoward happened, I’d have a lot more to blog. But you know, life’s pretty straight these days, and for that platoon mate of mine, pretty depressing, it seems. Business ain’t that great at the Superfunworld.
After we finished $20 worth of coins, we took my World Bank friend out for prata, but couldn’t find a single prata shop open, so we ate chicken rice instead. There, my World Bank friend continued griping about how she thought her brains would melt if she stayed in Singapore for an extended period of time. She said it was amazing how parochially suburban Singaporeans tended to be. I said, no leh, before changing the subject to what colour my new car’s interior was going to be, and how expensive my car repayments was going to be, but how it was still cheaper than running my old bomb of a car.
Then everyone got a bit tired, even though we tried our best to ngeh ngeh stay out the whole night. Three police road blocks later, we got home, and here I am, blogging about everything this evening. Parochial what parochial?!
The most beautiful hawker centre on the planet. East Coast Lagoon Food Village. Who cares if no one outside Singapore knows wtf a ‘hawker centre’ is? (Is it a place where people go play with their hawks?)