CONTINUED FROM 8 JUNE 2004… because it’s past midnight

The guys want to find somewhere and sit down and talk cock. There’s a bomb shelter left behind from colonial days, so we head inside.

What the hell. It’s damn dirty. The walls are lined with lizard shit.

Jonathan is down with a pretty bad sore throat. He wants to go to 7-Eleven to buy Strepsils.

The solution? Let’s all go take a walk.

We turn right and talk a detour down to the club house and car park. When I ask why not turn left and take the path I’d come up not long ago, Justin beckons to the two abandoned buildings flanking the road. “Notice when the other buildings are earmarked for conservation and are undergoing renovation, these are not?” I agree. He continues, “Something has to be wrong with them. If not, why are they untouched?”

Suddenly these two old buildings become very freaky. To think I had just walked past them a couple of minutes ago.

After buying our stuff at the convenience store, we decide to go somewhere to sit and just chit-chat. We walk down the beach towards the islet which is the Southernmost Point of Asia Continent, so the people at Sentosa believe. We settle down on the topmost level of the viewing towel, burn some mosquito coils and eat our snacks.

And talk. Someone asks lame questions and we all have a good laugh trying to think of logical and intelligent answers. Too bad, the solutions are always straightforward and of no need to think.

For example:

There was this certain bird that became extinct during the Ice Age, when the meteorite struck the earth. Why?

Because the bird used its wings to cover its eyes when the meteorite came. You can probably guess what happens after that.

So, why did the cave man die during the meteor strike?

No, the meteor didn’t kill him.

The falling bird did.

Now the following is some sort of IQ question which turned all the talk into an intellectual discussion but nobody came up with the perfect solution.

There are six balls. Two of them are fakes. With only a weighing scale, how do you tell which are the two fake balls?

Paul and Yewei fall asleep. The rest of us talk about almost everything, until two security guards climb up the stairs to our deck. So guard duty is all the same everywhere, civilian or military. You go in buddy level, one in front of the other. Only that his stores are lighter. He carries a truncheon, a torchlight and a walkie-talkie. We carry the last two items, a rifle instead of a truncheon, and the webbing. Our heads are sucked into a vacuum while we wear our jockey caps.

They tell us that we are not allowed to sleep on the tower. We assure them we’re only there to chat, then we’ll return back to our chalet. After the two men leave, we wake the others up with the intention of returning back, since they are tired and wish to sleep.

Supposedly it is said that while in a chalet, you don’t sleep, but spend the entire night up chatting away, playing games, enjoying the company. Not so for us. Yewei, Paul and Jonathan are so dead tired they go straight to bed. Yap was already asleep on the couch downstairs. Ashik, while playing cards, dozes off every few minutes or so. I slap in a wrong card and loose the game.

Hail the mahjong players. They’re conducting a marathon session, lasting till the morning. I would lie my head onto the green velvet and drift off.

Morning.

The sky looks pretty dark. Seven o’clock? I have slept quite long, and it’s only seven o’clock?

Quarter to ten, according to KS.

We open the windows. Surprise, surprise. A family of monkeys on the roof of the toilet, looking back at us. Wait, there’s more. There is a pair of peacocks. I didn’t know peacocks can fly that high…

The sky is dreary. It threatens to rain. We hurriedly wake up and clean up the bunk for the checkout at 11am. My mouth hurts terribly from the two ulcers and the stress that the braces are creating on the gums. I don’t want breakfast; it’s a torture to eat.

The heavens pour just as we are about to leave. We have to change back to our dirty clothes again to walk in the rain. Most of the guys strip themselves half-naked for the walk downhill to the bus stop along the main road

Out into the rain we go. It’s freaking cold, until I am shivering a little. We scale down the hill, trying to ignore the chill that is running through our bodies. We are not made to double at this juncture. We’re wearing slippers, struggling with our belongings…

Everybody gathers at the bus stop, and put their shirts back on. The bus arrives. What the hell... it’s damn bloody cold in there, even with a shirt on. I have to turn the air-conditioning vent away.

I’m loosing interest in my writing… and I think you are too. I feel so long-winded today. What the heck. Okay, to summarise:

1. The bus dropped us off at the Visitor Departure Centre, where we wait for the shuttle to the Harbour Front bus terminal
2. There we have lunch at the hawker centre. Ginger tea goes down well with the cold weather.
3. To the MRT, where we go our separate ways…. AAARGH WHAT THE FUCK AM I WRITING…

Shit, I never write like that, and I’m NEVER supposed to write like this for my blog…

PART 2

I don’t know what happened in the communications, but nobody turned up for the rehearsal for Xin Chao, except Lu Ther and Zhi Ying. Derrick is away at the CMPB for the medical check-up, while Kenneth is down with a stomach-ache and I cannot remember why Yao Cong is absent. I have absolutely no idea what happened to Jue Ru and Amanda.

In short, there is no rehearsal. And the weather only makes my temper worse.

PART 3

SBS Transit is fucked up again. After repeated appearances of services 38 and 229, number 12 stubbornly refuses to appear until the twentieth minute of my wait at the bus stop.

Stupid chee bais, sit in the office all day long and think that their company is making money while their poor commuters, who you have no sense of empathy even though we’re all fellow Singaporeans, are stranded at their bus stops, constantly fuming at late arrivals and constantly irritated by stupid and repetitious programming on TV Mobile. Of course they don’t care if your bus is late or not, because they have chauffeurs who arrive at their beck and call, while our friendly bus drivers arrive at their own beck and call.

Fucked up, understand? Fucked up!

By the time I board the bus I am so fucking piss.

And to piss me off further:

1. The bus that arrives bears the slogan on the windscreen of the upper deck: THE MUD ON MY FACE IS SOIL. OUR SOIL.
2. A letter appears in the Streats forum with the heading: BUS 200 IS OFTEN RUNNING LATE.

Thanks, I do not have to be reminded that I am due back in a camp in a different location next week, and I do not have to write in further to complain about service 12 and a whole lot of other fucking buses are LATE.

Talk about a punctuality campaign in the past. Talk COCK (by the way the mascot for that campaign happens to be a rooster wearing an oversized watch).  ¶ 6/09/2004 06:39:00 pm