I am very sure that, the first when I open my mouth for Dr Tang to inspect is that she is going to comment about the state of my teeth. They're extremely brown.

Darn right I am.

"Why is your teeth filled with so many coffee stains? Your brushing has to be improved!"

I am secretly praying that she won't send me to the dental therapist like the last time for lessons on how to brush properly.

Today's visit is to fit in new rubber bands. The current ones have been long overdue. The last time I saw my orthodontist was on 30 August. The next appointment was slated on the morning of 27 September. However, I cancelled that and tried to push the time till later in order to skip arms drill. I did this through email. The next time they got back to me, they told me that the time was impossible. They suggested 7 October. I thought I could go, but then I was told there was live firing. So it was postponed again. The earliest date available, the receptionist told me, was 29 November.

So it is this very day I make the trip down to the National Dental Centre.

Dr Tang tells me that I must return next week to extend the wire on the braces to the back tooth, which are currently left alone. Also, an operation has to be done to remove my wisdom tooth.

YES! YES! YES! Oh, this is so gleeful! I am sure to get a long medical leave.

The problem is that the lower wisdom teeth are slanted almost perpendicularly to the rest of the teeth. This requires that the gum be cut to extract the teeth; i.e. they cannot be extracted via the normal way of injecting the gums to numb it and then yanking the molars out. I have to go on anaesthesia.

I am sent to a variety of departments. First, to Level 2: for the dentists there to see my wisdom teeth to decide on the course of treatment. Then I am sent up to level 6 to do X-ray. It is the second floor X-ray staff member who sends me up there. I don't know why also. Then it's back to Dr Tang. Oops, I've made a mistake, according to doctor. She tells me that the X-rays are for the Level 2 doctor. I make my way down again. The doctor looks at the pictures and at my teeth. Then he tells me to wait to fix a date for my operation.

So many things . . .

My operation is fixed for the 18th of January. It's a day surgery. The night before, I'm not supposed to consume any food, including plain water. I can't even wear glasses into the operating room. This means I'm going to be blind, because my degree is so high that when I take off my glasses I only see an Impressionistic painting in front of me. And I have to bring a parent with me to sign the consent form, if not the whole thing would be forfeited and I would have wasted time and then I have to fix a new date and go through the whole procedure again, including testing. A week before the operation, I have to go for a blood test at the Health Promotion Board building to ascertain if I am fit to go under the surgeon's knife. Not to mention: I cannot forget my army card, because it means "savings".

I'm not really nervous yet about the operation. I guess I'll do so when the date draws nearer. In the first place, I don’t even know if I can actually go for the operation, because in January we're going operational, and we may have an exercise-cum-live-firing. I hate to delay everything again, because it disturbs the treatment process and I have to go through all the tiresome administrative jobs again.

From Yushan's Blog:

A or B

1. Stop or go?
Go

2. Dog or cat?
No preference

3. Coke or Pepsi
No preference . . . prefer non-gaseous drinks

4. White or black?
Black

5. Winter or summer?
Winter

6. Yahoo or MSN?
MSN

7. Married or live-in?
Married

8. Radio or television?
Radio

9. Sing or dance?
Sing

10. Compuer or cellular phone?
Computer . . . I think it has more uses than the phone

11. Pen or pencil?
Pen for writing essays and stories and scripts; pencil for music manuscripts

12. Dollar or peso?
Dollar of course!

13. Shower or bath?
Shower . . . it takes ages to fill up the tub for a bath

14. DVD player or VCD player?
DVD

15. Bed or couch?
Bed

16. McDonald's or Jollibee?
Still like Burger King best . . .

17. Vodka or beer?
Neither . . . I am unable to hold my drink . . .

18. Rock or rap?
Rock . . . can't stand non-melodic pieces

19. Driver or passenger?
Passenger . . . can sleep in the vehicle

20. Chinese or Japanese?
Chinese . . . I've learnt the language already and I'm in no mood to learn another Asian language . . .

21. Mum or Dad?
Mum

22. 666 or 333
333 . . . sounds more auspicious . . . 666 sounds like "sick, sick, sick"

23. Face or body?
Face . . . that's where you maintain eye contact with when you talk

24. Kobe Bryant or Michael Jordan?
No preference . . . never watched basketball

25. South or north?
North . . . because they're always Communist

26. First or last?
Depends on the situation

27. Gold or silver?
Gold . . . because it means (1) one day off; (2) $200 in the bank, (3) no more IPPT until next year!!! (*breaks into song: "No more SOC! / No more IPPT! / No more Sergeant tekan me / All the doo-dah-dey yah!")

28. Cockroach or worms?
Worms

29. Do's or don'ts?
Do's

30. Kiss with or without the tongue?
Without

31. Sleep or eat?
Sleep

32. Britney or Christina?
Neither!

33. Ashless or Jessica Simpson?
Who are they?

34. Mariah or Regina?
Who's the Regina person?

35. Nice or sweet?
Sweet . . . nice is too generic and sounds too distant

36. Young or old?
Old: (1) you have people to take care of you, (2) you are respected and revered for having seen the world for such a long time, (3) if you live in Sweden the government gives you money, not like here where everything is CPF, CPF and more CPF

37. Comedy or drama?
Comedy

38. Action or horror?
Action . . . hate horrors . . . they scare me, including their trailers in the cinemas

39. Friends or family?
Friends . . . sometimes more things to talk about

40. Nemo or Stitch?
No preference . . . I haven't watched either movies

41. Spongebob or Patrick Star?
Patrick Star . . . because we once used it as a cheer in BMT and it was pretty fun

42. Freddy or Jason?
Freddy . . . more closer to human

43. Regular or summer school?
What?

44. Hot or cold?
Lukewarm

45. Choice or chance?
Chance . . . because you are forced to take it with the knowledge that it may never come back again. I hate making decisions, so choice is out for me.

46. Bamboo or rivermaya?
What is rivermaya? Anyway I still prefer bamboo

47. Manual or automatic?
Automatic

48. The Grinch or Jack (The Nightmare Before Christmas)
Jack

49. Black-and-white or coloured?
Black-and-white

50. Spoon or fork?
Spoon . . . almost ninety percent of the food I eat contains rice. Don't forget the soup.

51. Slow or fast?
Slow

52. Chores or grounded?
Grounded . . . because I can still use my laptop and play my piano . . . I'm sick of doing "chores" in army

53. The Simpsons or Futurama?
The Simpsons . . . I grew up watching Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa, Maggie and the people of Springfield

54. Pimples or blackheads?
Pimples

55. English or Tagalog
English

56. Vin Diesel or Paul Walker?
Who the hell is Paul Walker?

57. Friendster or My Space?
Friendster

58. Gum or candy?
Both

59. MTV or MYX?
What's MYX?

60. Tacos or burritos?
Burritos!

61. Giordano or Lee?
Giordano

62. Pay or free?
Free of course!

63. High school or college?
High school

64. Whale or shark?
Shark - the cutting edge creature

65. Fast food or fine dining?
Fast food . . . can't be bothered to dress to the nines and observe so much etiquette for fine dining . . .

66. Superman or Spiderman?
No preference

67. Mario or Luigi?
No preference . . . I don't even play the game

68. Werewolves or vampires?
Vampires . . . because I studied "Dracula"

69. Witches or bitches?
Witches . . . witches will kill you so you don't have to appreciate their ugly looks and cackling voice further; on the other hand, bitches will never kill you so you have to torture yourself by appreciating them, and somehow you wish you were dead. Yet euthanasia is illegal.

70. Buffy or Darkangel?
No preference . . . I never watched the shows before anyway.

71. Smart-ass or sarcastic?
Smart-ass . . . then you can be sarcastic to them.

72. Burn or freeze?
Burn! Set off explosives and burn 'em!

73. Class work or homework?
No preference, because most of the time class work will ultimately and eventually become homework when not able to be completed in the duration of the lesson.


74. Math or Science?
Math . . . the studying part is not so boring as you are constantly writing and trying to crack new problems that don't repeat themselves . . . okay, simultaneous equations might keep re-appearing, but then you are dealing with new numbers everyday.

75. Adam Sandler?
Adam Sandler

76. Famous or rich?
Rich

77. Day or night?
Night

78. True or false?
True. Who likes to be lied to?

79. Pizza or pasta?
Pasta

80. McDonald's or spaghetti?
Spaghetti

81. Cheesy or chilli?
Chilli . . . don't like cheese

82. Milk or coffee?
Coffee any day please! No milk in it as well.

83. Ham or bacon?
Ham . . . bacon more salty

84. Peanut butter or cheese?
Peanut butter . . . as mentioned I don't like cheese

85. Nokia or Samsung?
Nokia . . . I swear by me 3310!

86. Italy or France?
Italy

87. Star City or Enchanted Kingdom?
Enchanted Kingdom . . . Pipiland is a Kingdom too

88. Lesbian or gay?
No difference right? They're all the same sexes loving one another

99. Run or walk?
Walk

100. Beginning or end?
Beginning . . . never liked the good things to end

HITS OF 1904 - MAHLER'S SEVENTH SYMPHONY
Lan Shui - conductor
Li Chuan Yun - violin

GLAZUNOV: Violin Concerto in A minor, Op. 82
MAHLER: Symphony No. 7 in E minor



The first thing that strikes me as discomfort is that the hall is only half-filled or so. There are many empty seats: the front few rows of the stalls, and the sides of the circle. Perhaps most people have come yester night, for this concert runs for two days.

The second weird thing is that there are LOTS OF KIDS. I think it's some music appreciation outing or something. But can they handle Mahler? Because his work is very long - do they have the attention span to sit through the entire concert? Let's not even talk about the Glazunov . . .

The violinist for tonight is Li Chuan Yun, or "Babeli", as written in the programme. The last time I saw him was in 2002, when I went to watch him play the Butterfly Lover's Concerto, and I must say it was one of the best I have heard. At those fiery moments of anguish he cried out the pains of Zhu Ying Tai on his instrument with pure hard drive until the bow hair start flying out, and he spends the orchestra tutti plucking them off.

The opening is reminiscent of Mendelssohn's E minor Violin Concerto: a few accompanying rhythmic figures (this time, triplets in the Clarinets), and the solo violin enters with the theme. Actually the Sibelius Violin Concerto opens somewhat similarly: tremolo figures in the strings, and then the solo violin enters with the first theme. You get the kind of "suddenly" effect: the moment the conductor swipes his baton, you hear "pa-pa-pa, pa-pa-pa" and suddenly the violin just comes in. This work has a greater suddenness quality compared to the Mendelssohn or the Sibelius: the violin on the fourth beat of bar 1. You don't even have the time to settle down to the accompaniment.

I like the triple-time, Andante theme (rehearsal mark 10, page 80, on the score "Great 20th Century Violin Concertos", Dover Publications). It has the quiet, pleasing effect: think of those musicals where the heroine sits alone and contemplates something, and she sings this line.

The rondo could be a mistaken for a scene in "The Polar Express". It has the Christmassy kind of feel to it, particular when the orchestral bells and triangle are included. Glazunov orchestrates the opening tutti of the finale theme to make it sound jubilantly celebratory; perhaps a "ho-ho-ho" from Santa can add more glee. Somehow I feel the balance is not there: the counter-melody in the trumpets overwhelm and block out the main theme in the strings.

During intermission, I happily bring my copy of the score of the concerto, which I have been following during the concert, to Li Chuan Yun for him to sign on it. The poor man is tired - after playing a twenty minute concerto, do you think his hand still has the strength to continue signing autographs for like hundreds of people? He writes, and then lies back onto his chair and sighs in exhaustion, while waiting for the ushers to position another person's programme in front of him.

I spot Maestro Lim Yau milling about the entrance of the concert hall while queuing for Mr Li's autograph. The near-shoulder-length bunch of hair is unmistakable, only that it has grown white in some spots. I wonder if Mrs Lim is with him.

Some of the kids start turning to one another to talk during the cadenza. What the hell. There are irksome looks from members of the audience: I see a Caucasian lady with red hair turning towards the row where they sit and staring at them. Even if they don't appreciate the music the very most they can do is sleep or do something that makes minimal sound, like draw on the feedback forms that they have been given by their teacher, or perhaps read the programme booklet from the back to the front.

After the interval, before the Mahler begins, the teacher berates her students in front of everybody: "I don’t want to hear any more complains from other people, otherwise you'll get it from me on Monday!"

Thereafter, during the Mahler, particularly during the middle movements, some of the kids are seen to nod off in their seats, awaking only during the arousing finale.

Anyway, as usual Mahler either writes extreme sadness or overwhelmed jubilation and happiness. Or he becomes sadistic and sarcastic. This symphony begins with a motif which was inspired by the sound of the oarsman rowing the boat, so-called the "funeral rhythm". The tenor horn, which plays most of the themes in the first movement, has a mournful quality, a mellowed-version of the touching and sad cornet. One feels uneasy already with the opening chords: diminished seventh on G-sharp, in the first inversion. It is simply arresting. Throughout the movement you'll keep hearing the dotted-rhythm motif; when played augmented it just reminds me of the opening theme of the first movement of Dvorak's Cello Concerto.

At one point where the music reaches stunning climax and suddenly dies down, a woman's mobile phone rings. Didn't anybody remind her to turn off all beeping devices, including phones? Oh, I forget. She must have turned it on during the intermission and then forgot to turn it off again. Take note, I should suggest that the "please turn all beeping devices off" announcement ought to be made immediately after the intermission, before the programme begins again. Singaporeans are absent-mindedly forgetful and ironically, they are unaware that they are being a concert hall nuisance.

And I have grudges against people who like to put their phones inside their bags. In fact, they hide it deep into their bags that their fingers have to play divers on a treasure hunt to the Titanic. My mother does that; I become irate when I call her and she doesn't answer the phone because either she cannot hear it when it's down under, or she takes such a long time to fish it out that the voice mail is already activated. Most of the time I have a reason to believe that it's the first reason, because despite calling back a couple of times she still doesn't pick up the phone. Anyway, this lady took a bloody long time to find her phone, and you can see the usher's face turning sour as the minutes pass. And the bloody device keeps beeping on and on throughout the quiet moments of the work.

One of the themes - can't remember which movement, though - has a favourite harmonic progression: a major chord followed by a minor one. In this case:

C - Bbm/C

Unfortunately I can't remember where it is in the score - it's an excuse to want to listen to that work again.

Majestic and forbidding, that's what I call it, especially when played by the brasses with sweeping string accompaniment. It's hell of a beautiful.

Then there are cowbells, hung on a stand and swiped across by the player's hand: "dang-dang-dang-dang-dang . . ." At one point the cow bells just dangle freely, as if they are not part of the music.

In the fourth movement, Mahler includes the guitar and mandolin. According to the commentary: to create some orchestral colour. But I don't really think they play much significance: they have no melodic parts, merely a few quaver notes here and there, and most of the time they get drowned out by the orchestra. We're not talking about Rodrigo's light scoring in his guitar concerto; here are forces that are powerful and electrifying. I shall remember not to score guitar with brass, or an orchestral tutti.

Shittification . . . the Eulenberg score that I borrow has no glossary of German terms, which is something that makes me like the Dover ones sometimes. At the start of the movement, the tempo marking, Langsam, has a bracketed translation of its Italian equivalent (Adagio). No wonder Percy Grainger was adamant about using English words to mark his scores, rather than Italian or German or whatsoever language. Many composers use their own tongue to mark their scores: Debussy used French; Tchaikovsky used Russian; Mahler used German; the Chinese composers mark in Chinese; although Italian was and is still the main language used for scores.

* * *

As I leave the concert hall, I hear the kids remarking to one another: "I fell asleep at the so-and-so movement . . ."

No prizes for guessing, but I think the concert might have been a traumatic experience for them. Perhaps they'll just stick to their good old pop music, simply and hummable, forever interesting because there is a never-dying drum rhythm that passions the senses. This is, I believe, the best way to reduce audience figures for concerts, and kill the number of art music lovers. Pop music will live forever. And now pop music has the failings of a physical attraction where sight is more important than music. Lousily-written songs, when backed with deft-defying stunts and pretty female backup dancers, can win fans from the audience. I am sorry that I wish to show discrimination towards most pieces in the pop repertoire, that they hardly have much musical value in them, except for tunefulness and sometimes skilful orchestration. Yet, orchestrations are more often than not done by other people, not the songwriters themselves. So sometimes, but a stroke of luck, good orchestration may actually save the song.

Or, ironically, the orchestration and the music kills it.

There is an English techno song that I really hate because of its irritating high-pitched musical motif that appears time and again on the record. The singing is intelligible . . . the only thing one can notice is the heavy drum beat and that screeching motif. Then someone tells me that the lyrics write about someone feeling low after his lover has left him, and they are very meaningful. I think: how can words like this have such unfitting music? Surely it doesn't do justice to the text.

Back to the topic: I have to admit it, pop music is here to stay, even how I despise it. Art music is spurned by the new generation, save for a minority. Sometimes music education backfires, like this trip to the concert, where they are bored by music they cannot appreciate, make a nuisance, get screwed by their teacher and build a dislike of watching art music concerts because, unlike pop or rock music concerts, they have to sit still and keep quiet, whereas in the latter they can scream and shout and communicate with the music physically and vocally. Best still, they can relate to the music, and the music can relate to them. Only the loud bits of the score excite them.

Perhaps there should be a new approach to how music ought to be taught to kids. Perhaps it should be merely about playing excerpts on the CD, then getting their reactions towards the music. Then again, the teacher could have done that, the students loved it and wanted to come and listen to the work in full, only to realise they'd somewhat been "cheated".

Or should we go back to playing popular classics instead, before unleashing the great hidden treasures of the music world to them? Or must Maksim or Bond take Mahler's works and "revolutionise" and "modernise" them before they are accepted on the pedestal of popular art music such as Beethoven's Fifth and Mozart's Fortieth?

* * *

Anecdotes from the programme booklet:

Is Glazunov really that bad? Does he lack in ethics?

"Glazunov almost single-handedly ended the composing career of Sergei Rachmaninov. He was invited to conduct the premiere of Rachmaninov's First Symphony, but was so ill-prepared and - according to many - drunk, that the performance was an utter disaster. So devastated was Rachmaninov that he considered suicide.

"Glazunov also did his best to kill the compositional career of Prokofiev by ostentatiously walking out in the middle of the premiere of Prokofiev's Scythian Suite. It created quite a scandal at the time but did little harm to Prokofiev's subsequent career, which was in any case made of altogether stronger psychological stuff than Rachmaninov."

. . .

"Mahler once described the compositional process thus, 'Do you know how a trumpet is made? One takes a hole and wraps tin around it; that's more or less what composing is'!"

"'I am thrice homeless, as a native of Bohemia in Austria, as an Austrian among Germans, and as a Jew throughout the world. Everywhere an intruder; never welcomed.' - Mahler"


* * *

I can't seem to find the booklet containing the programmes for next year's concert season. All I have is a small brochure that truncates the details, showing only the performers and the works programmed. Here's an overview:

8 JAN SAT
STARS OF ASIA: SSO 26TH ANNIVERSARY CONCERT
Lan Shui - conductor
Lee Huei Min - violin

MENDELSSOHN: Ruy Blas Overture
CHEN GANG / HE ZHANHAO: Butterfly Lovers Concerto
BIZET-SARASTE: Carmen Fantasie
R. STRAUSS: Don Juan
R. STRAUSS: Der Rosenkavalier: Suite

14 JAN FRI
STARS OF ASIA: CELLO FANTASY
Lan Shui - conductor
Qin Liwei - cello

JOHN ADAMS: The Chairman Dances
CHEN YI: Ballad, Dance and Fantasy for Cello and Orchestra
DVORAK: Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 70

28 JAN FRI
STARS OF ASIA + A SPACE ODYSSEY
Gerard Schwarz - conductor
Jennifer Koh - violin

WAGNER: Overture to Tannhauser
NIELSEN: Violin Concerto, Op. 33
STRAUSS: Also Sprach Zarathustra, Op. 30

4 FEB FRI
SYMPHONIC TREATS: BEETHOVEN'S PASTORAL SYMPHONY
Hubert Soudant - conductor

MENDELSSOHN: The Hebrides, Op. 26 "Fingal's Cave"
SCHUBERT: Symphony No. 3 in D major, D. 200
BEETHOVEN: Symphony No. 6 in F major, Op. 68 "Pastoral"

9 APR SAT
CHOO HOEY RETURNS!
Choo Hoey - conductor
Kong Zhao Hui - violin

MOZART: Violin Concerto No. 5 in A major, K. 219 "Turkish"
LISZT: A Faust Symphony

15 APR FRI & 16 APR SAT
BEETHOVEN'S EMPEROR CONCERTO
Okko Kamu - conductor
Vladimir Feltsman - piano

IVES: Central Park in the Dark
BEETHOVEN: Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major, Op. 73 "Emperor"
SIBELIUS: Symphony No. 5 in E-flat major, Op. 82

22 APR FRI
STARS OF ASIA: CELLO WORLD
Okko Kamu - conductor
Ni Hai Ye - cello

WEBERN: Passacaglia, Op. 1
ELGAR: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op. 85
Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade, Op. 35

30 APR SAT
VIENNA CLASSICS
En Shao - conductor
Angela Hewitt - piano

SCHOENBERG: Verklarte Nacht, Op. 4, for string orchestra
MOZART: Piano Concerto No. 17 in G major, K. 453
BRAHMS: Symphony No. 3 in F major, Op. 90

6 MAY FRI
SSC 25TH ANNIVERSARY: BEETHOVEN'S CHORAL SYMPHONY
Lim Yau - conductor
Lim Yan - piano
Tamara Matthews - soprano
Graciela Araya - mezzo soprano
Christopher Lemmings - tenor
Johannes Mannov - bass
Singapore Symphony Chorus
Singapore Bible College Chorale
The Philharmonic Chamber Choir
Singapore Hallelujah Chorus

BEETHOVEN: Choral Fantasy
BEETHOVEN: Symphony No. 9 in D minor, Op. 125 "Choral"

13 MAY FRI
ALL BEETHOVEN EVENING: SHLOMO MINTZ
Shlomo Mintz - conductor / violin

BEETHOVEN: Coriolan Overture, Op. 62
BEETHOVEN: Symphony No. 8 in F major, Op. 93
BEETHOVEN: Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61

20 MAY FRI & 21 MAY SAT
GALA CONCERT: HILARY HAHN RETURNS!
Lan Shui - conductor
Hilary Hahn - violin

RAVEL: Mother Goose Suite
PROKOFIEV: Violin Concerto No. 1 in D major, Op. 19
RACHMANINOV: Symphony No. 2 in E minor, Op. 27

27 MAY FRI
STEPHEN HOUGH PLAYS RACHMANINOV
Lan Shui - conductor
Stephen Hough - piano

BIZET: Symphony No. 1 in C major
RACHMANINOV: Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Op. 43
ELGAR: Enigma Variations, Op. 36

I've marked out what I want to go and watch, but some of the programmes fall on a Friday instead. Darn. I just hope I can place a medical appointment on that date or, pray for, an off-day on that Friday.

I'm definitely catching Beethoven's Emperor Concerto; at the same time they are also playing Sibelius' Fifth Symphony.

I want to listen to Strauss' "Also Sprach Zarathustra" - LIVE on the concert stage. It's sure to be a sonic experience. But darn, it's on a Friday . . . unless I can fix my medical appointment on that day . . . ?

At the same time I don't think I'm going to watch the Butterfly Lovers again, even if it's Lee Huei Min playing . . . oh, for God's sake, why do they keep playing that every year?

I get to leave camp early today, to go to SGH to donate blood.

The mother of one of the First Sergeants in our unit - whom we have never seen before because he is on course - is suffering from some cancer or illness whereby her body cannot make platelets on its own, and has to rely on platelets in the bloods of donors. Hence O+ blood donors are being sought, and I, having that particular blood group, decide to contribute.

We troop down to SGH's Haematology Centre. We have to be given a screening before we can be qualified as donors. By right, we are supposed to be long term donors, coming to the centre to donate blood when the patient is required to have platelets pumped into her system. Platelets can only survive for five days, and within this duration has to be given to the patient. It can mean donating blood two times a month. It is not a one-off thing as we have thought. However, we are unable to commit in such a way, due to our (unpredictable) training schedule. Donating blood means two hours on the machine, and thereafter, three days of light duties as we will be quite weak. To the big shots this probably means a decrease in productivity - is that the Law of Diminishing Returns? - as we are unable to contribute fully.

I am only worried about what my parents will say: I have no qualms about giving blood. Last year, there was an appeal for blood at our college. I brought the form home to get my parents' consent, and theirs was a straight no. They are worried about me not being able to handle the after-effects of blood giving, as back then I was very thin and my health not very well. Also, they were afraid of what the needle might give to me - i.e. I may get HIV or something.

Strangely, when I get home and tell them about my decision, they were quite approving. I especially emphasised the word "SGH", at least to assure them that a group of professionals are taking care of me. My family has been quite involved with the SGH, since the elderly in our have been warded there time and again. And if you can't trust the General Hospital, who else can you trust?

Smokers, all of you had better read this:



The Straits Times, Wednesday, 24 November 2004
Mind Your Body: In the Know (Pg. 11)



"PAYING FOR CIGARETTES HE DIDN'T SMOKE"
That smoking causes lung cancer is bound to evoke a ho-hum reaction from Singaporeans. But seeing a terminally-ill passive smoke struggle to warn against the practice from his hospital bed gives the message a whole new meaning for Radha Basu.

Sprawled on a hospital bed, mouth wide open to fight for every breath, he looked every inch a lung cancer patient living on a borrowed time - paying the price for a lifelong addiction to nicotine.

Except that Mr Lawrence Tan (not his real name) has never been a smoker.

Passive smoking was the culprit, his doctors suspect. The 62-year-old, who is critically ill with lung cancer, spent the last four years running a smoke-filled family-owned pub.

He was diagnosed in February this year with a small-cell lung cancer, a relatively rare form of the disease that doctors say has an "even stronger correlation to smoking" than the more common large-cell variety.

Despite chemotherapy, radiation, surgery and drugs, the cancer has spread aggressively.

As he fights for his life, Mr Tan is keen to get a simple yet poignant message out from his bedside: Smoking kills.

So fierce is his determination to get this across that the former businessman agreed to an interview at his bedside at the National Cancer Centre last week, even though this meant suffering the indignity of letting a complete stranger - me - see him at his most vulnerable.

He had received an emergency blood transfusion that day. His eyes were glazed over with pain, his body was limp with fatigue and every word he uttered was a small victory of his will over the cancer choking his breath.

As a doctor monitored his pulse, he apologised for his dishevelled state. And then waited for the questions.

Did Mr Tan believe that smoking caused his condition? Silent for a while, he briefly looked away, fighting tears. Then he nodded, adding, "Smoking all the time is bad, very bad", gasping for air after every word.

Was he a regular smoker? This time, the answer was a whispered monosyllable: "No".

Did he feel that smoking should be stopped in public places like pubs, where he spent long hours almost every day in recent years?

"Def . . . definitely so" was the laboured reply.

Ironically, running the pub was something Mr Tan did for fun rather than necessity, as a post-retirement diversion, said his son, who is a 32-year-old banker.

Mr Tan would spend at least four to five hours at the pub every day. The younger Mr Tan requested that their real names not be revealed "for business reasons", as none of the pub employees knows of their employer's condition.

Mr Tan's surgeon, Dr Koong Heng Nung - who has launched an aggressive anti-smoking campaign - is particularly angry at the plight of passive smokers. "About three in ten lung cancer patients we see are passive smokers," said Dr Koong, a senior consultant at the National Cancer Centre.

What makes Dr Koong suspect strongly that his patient's work in the pub is to blame is that Mr Tan has small-cell lung cancer. About 95 per cent of small-cell patients get the disease from cigarette smoke.

In the more common adenocarcinoma, or large-cell lung cancer, the disease is lower - at between 80 to 90 per cent, said Dr Koong.

In his seven years of seeing lung cancer patients, Dr Koong has encountered too many cases like Mr Tan's, where even the best possible treatment ends up short against a disease determined to reap a deadly toll.

Small-cell lung cancer is one of the most vicious forms of the disease, in which, if left untreated, a patient dies within three months of getting it.

With treatment, survival rates improve to between six and sixteen months, said Dr Koong.

In Singapore, about three people die every day from lung cancer. About one in five patients has the small-cell form of the disease.

And with endless studies to prove that tobacco is the main cause, Dr Koong is convinced that giving up smoking will lead to a significant reduction in these statistics.

The surgeon was instrumental in getting November designated as the "Lung Cancer Awareness Month" and has also begun a campaign to encourage pubs here to become smoke-free, especially to protect pub employees and patrons who don't smoke.

Pubs in Ireland, New York and California have already taken such steps. Sweden and Hong Kong will soon follow suit.

"Too often, we see cases like Mr Tan's, where treatments yield little result, and prayers are our best hope," said Dr Koong.

"Curbing smoking in public places may help reduce that."

The Tan family, meanwhile, are not content with prayers alone. They are planning a trip to China to try and get Mr Tan treated with Gendicine, which doctors there are touting as the latest breakthrough in cancer treatment.

Making that journey to the land of their forefathers, they hope, will yield the "miracle cure" that has eluded them so far.

A paragraph of interest from the biography of Stephen Sondheim that I have been reading:

In "Touched with Fire", a fascinating study of the lives of artists, poets, composers, and writers, the psychiatrist Kay Redfield Jamison states that profound swings of mood, from euphoria to despair, are commonly found among creative people. She quotes the Danish writer Hans Christian Andersen, who suffered from recurrent depressions, to the effect that "I am like water. Everything moves me, I suppose it is part of my poetic nature, and it often brings me joy and happiness, but very often it is also a torment." Dr Redfield does not suggest that neurosis or psychosis is a precondition for successful creative work but only that there is an association. She cites William James, who himself suffered from melancholia and disturbing swings of mood, to the effect that when someone possesses a mutable temperament and a superior intellect, "We have the best possible condition for the kind of effective genius that gets into the biographical dictionaries."

--- "Stephen Sondheim: A Life" by Meryle Secrest, p 232



I feel funny today. It's like as if I've slept for ages, yet I still feel I want to sleep for ages. Like a bear hibernating, you know . . . somehow in the afternoon I just cannot push myself to go to sleep, even if I feel drowsy. So I continue devouring the Sondheim book enthusiastically. To quote a line from one of the songs of "Red-Threaded Hearts": "The medicine's playing games." (from "There is Something I Know I Must Do")

Still, I nod off after my parents leave for my grandma's for dinner. I only awake at 11:45pm to find the air-conditioning turned on, and my father is still outside ironing clothes (he's been at it for one whole day), and my dinner - or rather, supper - is awaiting me on the table.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEE!

SOC training in the morning. All I can say is that I have no experience in loosening the soil. I have never been an excuse personnel during SOC trainings before, so I have to keep consulting Sergeant Aaron, who is my station I/C, whether the soil has been treated with the correct results.

I deliberately choose the low ramp, because I have a particular phobia of falling into the barbed wire at the bottom of the ramp, near the sand pit. By studying the structure and watching people leap off I can finally tell myself, hey, even if I just drive myself off the ramp I can still fall somewhere in the middle of the sand pit, far away from the barbed wire itself.

And I guess the last method I tried worked: look ahead at some object in the distant horizon while running up the slope, and shouting, and ignore where the ramp ends, and just LEAP OFF!!!

* * *

In the afternoon, I go and endorse my MC.

Now, at that time I don't really understand what "endorsement of MC" really means. Is it (1) an extension of one's medical excuse? Or (2) let the MO see your MC and then approve the remainder of the excuse that you have been given? Anyway, I'm not really well enough: I want more excuse, so I go ahead to the medical centre.

Once there I find out that the term "endorsement" really stands for option (2). My MC isn't considered valid anymore, because it's finished. My doctor had only given me MC for one day: the 16th of November. However, I voice out to the medic that I am still feeling unwell, and he ticks a box on the paper that says, "Medical Review".

I should have known.

Pathetically it results in a reverse effect, whereby I become more ill than ever. The problem is that those seeking a medical review have to wait until the MO attends to all the afternoon report-sick cases. So I sit in the freezing waiting room in just a T-shirt and shorts. It begins to rain outside, causing the temperature to drop even further. I find myself shivering and having to wrap my arms to block out the cold, without much effect. A migraine develops from the lack of proper sleep yesterday.

By the time I see the MO I am as good as a report-sick case. But I didn't tell the MO about the headache; I assume that I will go back to bunk and sleep and then it'll all be gone. The MO gives me one day medical leave at home and light duty for tomorrow. The medical leave is pretty absurd, considering that by then it is almost four in the afternoon, and if I take leave it'll only be sufficient for me to touch the door of my house and then return back to camp.

So I request Sir to let me sleep in the bunk once I get back to company line. He says okay. For a while I'm in a dilemma: to lie on the bed or not. What if Garfield or Doraemon is/are unreasonable, and fault me for breaking rules? After that, I determine, to hell with them, health is more important, if they punish me I'll complain about them.

It's terrible to sleep. The headache is like a hammer beating down upon the pulp of my brain, as if trying to make steak out of it. My nose is blocked; I have to use my mouth to breathe, which doesn't help me to get to sleep, because all my focus is upon trying to obtain air.

Dinner time, and I have no appetite to eat. Curry puts me off. I eat the dishes and throw the remainder of the curry-stained rice away. At this juncture I only long for soup-based dishes. Clear or herbal soups. Unfortunately, SFI does not serve them.

Jeremy comes into the room. He says I am stupid not to have taken the chance to go outside and report sick. Then I can get a longer MC and go home and rest properly. I ask him, is it possible to report sick twice? He tells me that the others who were not here on Tuesday did the same: the moment they were released on medical leave from camp, they went out and got MCs from polyclinics and government hospitals. And then I realise that I'm actually so stupid.

* * *

In the night, Medic Tu wakes me up to take my temperature. It's pretty bad, he tells me. I am told to take two fever tablets.

It rains. It's very cold. It's a torture going to the toilet, having to experience chills and the ongoing migraine. I am only thankful to be back in bed under the blanket. I doubt I can fully recover even to assume light duties - this fever is taking ages to subside.

Sick again.

In a little more than two months I have come to seen Episode Two: The Attack of the Feverish Feeling.

* * *
My complaints:

Fever
Persistent cough with lots of phlegm (almost a week already)
Running nose (almost a week as well)
Shoulder / shoulder blade pain, especially when I turn my head to look behind me

I have been cheated by a friend today, who asked me out to meet me up. I thought we'd probably sit down at a coffee house or something, enjoy drinks and just chat and catch up with one another.

She wants to meet me at Raffles Place MRT - I find it a little weird because the CBD is deserted on a Sunday; furthermore there is nothing of worth during the weekends. Then she tells me to walk to Lau Pa Sat. I think: how is it possible we chat there? That place is nothing but a food court where the prices are astronomical and the food uninteresting, save for the night outdoor food trolleys along Boon Tat Street.

Yet the strangest thing is that I hardly keep in contact, or even communicate, with this friend since we entered JC - she being in the Science stream and in a different CCA. I doubt we even say hi to each other along the corridors very much. She calls me out of the blue on Deepavali, stunning me for the moment as I struggle to make sense how she would try to find me when I'm not even close to her.

So I walk to Lau Pa Sat, and there she is, dressed almost formally like she's working. In fact, she is working. I ask her, as she eaten lunch? She has. We buy drinks and sit down. She asks how is life in the army - that is perfectly normal in a way to start a conversation with long-time-no-see friends. Guys are often asked about - and talk about - national service, while the preferred topics for the girls are their experiences in the university.

Speaking about university - she goes on to talk about her dreams to study at a foreign university. She asks where am I going after I ORD - overseas or remain in Singapore? She inquires about funding. She talks very quickly, very confidently. She seems to know what she is saying and what she is GOING to say.

Then she talks about her part-time work. She offers to bring me to her company to take a look - I am beginning to get more puzzled: bring me to her company? What on earth is she trying to do? I thought this would be any ordinary conversation on a boring Sunday, but it seems she is trying to sell me something. In order that I may not offend her, I follow her along.

She brings me across the road to one of the slightly older office buildings. There are lots of people milling about the entrance to the lobby. We walk past the bank of elevators and through the door behind the lift shafts. Along the way, she meets some of her colleagues. "Have you eaten?" they ask her. "No I haven't," she replies.

Remembering what she told me earlier, I ask her incredulously, "But I thought you told me you had lunch already?"

"Well, I ate breakfast."

I observe some tinge of dishonesty, but I shrug it off.

The room is of a completely different setting from the marbled and dimmed lobby: here the walls are white-washed and the place is brightly lit with fluorescent lights, almost reminiscent of tuition centres. There are lots of round tables, where people are seated in groups and discussing things. There are pigeonholes for bags. There are lots of posters and papers bearing handwritten notices on one wall.

She sits me down at one of the tables, tells me to wait and goes off. I read my book rather apprehensively. What the hell is this place? Why did she bring me here?

She leads a well-dressed young man to the table. In fact, he is formally dressed in a business suit. In his hand is a plastic file with plain white papers. "This is Mr V (not his real name), my mentor," she introduces.

We shake hands, and sit down. I briefly introduce myself. Then Mr V asks what I want to do in university. Music, I tell him. I want to be a composer and a conductor. He asks where I want to do this. I tell him, I'm not sure. I am very cautious about telling him my details, very cautious when phrasing my sentences. I am very sure he is trying to sell me something, or to coax me into doing something. From the way he dresses, I can tell, or at least sense something. He is dressed to impress, to make people believe him. Fortunately I may have the ball in the court. He may be ignorant about the music education and its associates. I can probably reveal and manipulate details that will put me towards an advantage towards fending off whatever he is trying to push to me. He keeps implying that I need extra money to take on courses to learn the skills required for what I'm going to do later . . . I tell him some of these courses he perceives are really unnecessary, and I'm frugal enough to realise the possibility of paying for my further education. Which is true, yes, because I am still going on the allowance system of a fixed amount per month, no more no less, although the money now comes from what I earn as a national serviceman.

He comes to the real motive behind his talk: taking up a part-time job with his company to earn extra money faster before I go to university. I'm aware that the SAF forbids its personnel to hold other jobs besides theirs inside the army. For this reason I'm not really interested in taking this job, because it can possibly land me in serious trouble. We're talking about the whole fucking SAF, not just the company. It's not just extra duties or whatsoever, but there could possibly be legal dealings involved. Most importantly, however, I want the weekends to myself, and I honestly am not about to spend my time working to earn money when I have to work so hard myself from Monday to Friday inside the camp. Come on, Saturdays and Sundays are important to my relaxation. I feel pissed off even when I have to spend Saturday mornings attending any important function that is not related personally to me.

Mr V reassures me that this job won't take up much of my time. It's a networking business whereby I only have to call "friends out for coffee and then persuade him or her to join the network", like what my friend had done. I am flabbergasted: I've been cheated by my own friend, and I'm not about to cheat others just to earn money. I think it's dishonest. I don't tell him this of course, but put it another way: well, I'm not really interested in doing business, and I'm not a good talker.

"Everybody does not start out being a good talker," he assures me. "But you can learn." End of the road: I switch back to the previous statement about needing relaxation time. All the while, I am adamant about my lack of interest in the job. Strangely the thought of money doesn't sway my decision. The only thing on my mind then is getting the hell out of there as fast as possible without cutting any deal.

I think he gives up in the end. I refuse to be swayed by his smooth-talking. We shake hands, and I can sense the disappointed look in his eyes. After he leaves, she tries to talk me into the job, recounting her own experiences of how she manages to earn back whatever she invested into the business within three months. I tell her, sorry, I'm really not interested. I didn't tell her: yes, you can earn back your investment in three months. I may not be able. I might not even earn back the money at all. Everyone takes and do things at different levels of proficiency. She may have the business acumen. I definitely do not. Finally, like Mr V, she has nothing more to say, but merely escorts me out to the bright sunshine. I'm grateful to see the traffic once again. She is almost pleading, but doesn't show it. "Think about it, won't you? I'll call you in a few days' time for your decision."

Well she hasn't called back since. I'm unsure if she has gone to meet other friends for coffee. Yeah, call me a sceptic towards my own friend, but from what she has done to me, I feel my trust being belittled.

--- I ---

The taxi driver laughs at me.

I thought I'd be sure of the route to Wilfred's house, having taken the bus which took the opposite direction of the route we are now travelling. Apparently, my memory fails me when we reach the Hougang South area. I tell the driver, turn here - no, not here - wait, I think it's here - oh dear, I can't remember where -

So we drive and drive and then we end up - "Hey, isn't this Jalan Eunos?"

OMG WE OVERSHOT!

And the uncle has to make one big turn back.

I'll probably go by bus or train . . .

--- II ---

I wonder why this particular lady is so concerned about me hand-copying scores from a book rather than photocopying them.

Truthfully my Cash Card has insufficient amount to meet the demands of photocopying the amount of scores that I want. So the only thing that I may do is to copy the songs that I want, note for note, in my own hand.

So I sit at one of the long tables facing the great glass window at the Esplanade Library, writing away. This lady comes up to the seat adjacent to mine, carrying a stack of newspapers. As she settles herself down, she glances towards my side, as if this fellow here half-standing, half-sitting, copying frantically with a brown bag slung forever over his shoulder amidst a pile of scores. Then:

"Why don't you go and photocopy them?"

I stop copying, and look and her. "Well, I don't have enough money in my Cash Card."

"Surely you can top it up at the photocopying station?"

"I don't have an ATM card." The stupidity about Cash Cards is that you need another cashless device to top it up, and it's not an advantage for people like me who do not own ATM or NETS cards. "So I have to copy by hand."

"Wow . . . you have so much time?"

This is the final insult. So what is it if I want to copy the scores by hand myself? I've been doing this for the past few times when I've had little cash left in my card. Nobody has bothered me so far. And I don't need people to tell me that I'm wasting my time with this or that. If I'm wasting my time, then so be it.

Very smugly I reply her, "Well that's a better way to know the score . . ."

I guess that put her off considerably . . .

This spells a lot of trouble for the Middle East . . . and a lot of new shit in the Palestine-Israel problem.

HAPPY DEEPAVALI!

--- I ---

I wonder by my troth
Did I create
A sweet success
Or an uncooked failure

???

My parents and my brother have gone on down to the John Little sale at the Singapore Expo, leaving me at home, as usual. It is always my own free will to stay at home, than to go out and wander aimlessly about. For I often have many things to settle, the chances of which I have been denied while at camp.

Therefore lunch is left for me to settle. I tell Mother that I shall go outside to eat. Eventually she calls me to the kitchen to tell me that she has cooked rice. She takes out a packet of pre-packed spare ribs from the freezer and tells me to use the microwave to heat it back. She says that I can have cabbage to go along, which she puts into the steamer with the rice.

Which means I have to prepare the lunch myself.

About 2pm, I take out the spare ribs from the freezer. I cut open the packet to take the meat out. It is so icily cold that my hands turn numb almost immediately. I place the meat onto a plate and into the microwave oven it goes. The packet's instructions state medium to high heat, but in order to ensure that the meat thaws and gets cooked, I switch to high heat instead, settling for 9 minutes of cooking rather than the stated 8.

I prepare the cabbage, adding sesame oil and oyster sauce. There are crackling and popping sounds from the microwave. For a moment, I fear something might explode. I look inside the oven: the sauce is bubbling away, threatening to overflow the rather shallow plate. A piece of meat which could not fit into the plate completely during its frozen state has now dropped onto the grille. I stop the microwave, open the door and attempt to use chopsticks to pick the food back into the plate. Too soft; it slips through the chopsticks and instead drops under the grille. Shit. Now I have to get another chopstick to jack up the grille so that I can pick up the fallen piece of meat. I lift the grille much too high, and the plate slides backwards, nearly dropping off the grille. Shit again! I don't have much luck with the piece of pork either: it keeps slipping off the chopsticks as it is very soft (and possibly tender).

Finally I get it back to where it ought to belong, and resume the microwave. When the food has been cooked, I take it out to the table. The cooked meat looks pathetically jaundiced. Then again, there are dark shades of brown at some parts of the meat. Are they uncooked? I cannot tell anything because the picture on the packaging shows rich, red meat, and now I've got meat with two different colours, none of which resemble the sample. Anyway I'm not enthusiastic about re-cooking the whole thing again, lest it creates another unforeseen disaster and the whole thing has to be ditched away.

What the heck, just eat it.

Perhaps I shall lunch out in future; I can't even handle simply-cooked food.

--- II ---

While surfing the net for complete scores of ABBA songs, I discover, on the ABBA Official Site, that the conductor scores of "Mamma Mia" are in the process of being released for sale. Which means I can actually acquire and read them! However, I have to download via Noteheads; they don't have a version for Sibelius. I'm considering writing to them to request a version for Sibelius, or the least they can do is to print out everything, bind the scores and sell as a book, which I'd appreciate even greatly, for I am using a 56K modem.

How fast time flies when one is having fun!

I go to Wilfred's house to jam with him. It's been ages since we last did that in the recital room at TJC, where it was a welcome respite from the stresses of studying - or cramming - for the exams. I think it has almost been a year. We are going to play his songs, which I miss! Wilfred has got this composition style that is almost John Denver: simple chord progressions (but he surprises you at times with harmony that arrives unexpectedly, such as the A, B, C, D chord progression in "Liberation", which truly reflects the spirit of going free in music); memorable tunes and virtuosic guitar playing, such that when I play on the keyboards with him, I prefer to play a sustained harmonic backing as not to overshadow his rhapsodic accompaniment writing.

Wilfred's dad introduces a lot of new singers and music groups, and we play CDs on the hi-fi set. There's Westlife, Roger Whittaker, Boney M, Elton John, Nat King Cole, Kenny G and a guitarist whose name I cannot remember. I particularly like Roger Whittaker, who sings ballads, much like what Fei Yuqing does in the east. There is one song which has two extreme contrasts. The front is urgent and alert with thumping quavers, while a horn dovetails the end of each line sung. Suddenly, the music becomes legato, and we have the lush strains of the ballad. However, I don't really like the accompaniment of "Leaving on a Jet Plane" sung by him: it is much too happy and fast, like you trying to imply that, thank god, I'm leaving my wife or lover for some place where I'll probably keep a mistress.

The themes in Boney M's songs are, well, just weird. They are the people who sang "Rasputin" - quote "Ra-Ra-Rasputin / Lover of the Russian Queen . . . Ra-Ra-Rasputin / Russia's greatest love machine" ("Rasputin"), or this song called, "Ma Baker" with its arresting opening declaration: "Freeze, I'm Ma Baker!" Hmm how could the man who led the monarchy to a state of mishap become a perverted, sort-of-modern-day kind of pimp? Well, he was perverted though . . . As for Ma Baker, I don't really know who that character is . . . not if that song was meant to be an opening theme for a show of sorts. Not to forget humour and some puzzlement: "She's crazy like a fool / Why bother Daddy Cool?" ("Daddy Cool") These two lines repeat themselves continuously throughout the song. The group does have nice ones. I can't remember the title - I'll try to find it and write it in.

I discover a new love for Elton John's ballads - and those rather sensible songs, as compared to "Crocodile Rock" and those sorts. I shall try to find the recording for "The Last Song". It has very meaningful lyrics, of which I studied almost two years ago with Colin Tan when he came to teach us practical criticism using the lyrics of pop songs. Wilfred and I also play "Candle in the Wind". The preferred version is the 1997 one, which he sang at the funeral of Princess Diana. It is accompanied by solo piano; the earlier one dedicated to Marilyn Monroe had a rock flavour to it; I find it rather inappropriate for the sombreness of the occasion.

I nearly forget to mention: this beautifully written soprano saxophone solo, titled "Morning" or somewhere along these lines, played by Kenny G. The opening part of the theme has a very nice chord progression. Kenny G could have written a saxophone concerto: I consider him the Paganini of the saxophone. His writing includes a lot of ornamentation, and as the theme repeats itself, he creates variations that are richly decorated and very virtuosic, with lots of running notes up and down the range of the instrument.

It is only 11:30pm when I finally leave his place; in fact I nearly forget to go, having listened to so much and so varied music. At the prompting that I may miss the last bus and find myself stranded, I finally depart, my mind brimming with enlightenment.

Work Improvement Teams

According to TalkingCock.com (www.talkingcock.com) it means: a Waste of Individual Time.

Which is very true.

The whole WITs thing is full of flaws on its own. It contradicts the principle of "improvement" when there are problems that we cannot solve. It's not that we've run out of wits but the solutions that we provide are denied acceptance simply because the rule book says that this and that are now allowed. For example, one cannot do anything to the tank, besides painting a few words on its surface.

Some of the good ideas are rejected only because it has already been implemented. But do we know? No. Because for some reason or another, they do not seem to be applied seem to be across the board. Or perhaps we are rather new in the army, so we do not know the workings of the other formations.

Some ideas are shot down because of the red tape involved in procedures. For instance, Sergeant Dexter comes up with the idea of having the telephone numbers of the medical centres and the nearest hospital painted onto the safety sign that is hung on the land rover, so that anybody can call the place in case the medic or the officers are not around and are busy with the victim. The point that all of us agree with: the few vital seconds can save a life. But the big shots in the company say no. The officers are supposed to know the numbers by heart. Besides, not everybody can call the medical centre. So the idea is: we're supposed to look for the officer, tell him to call the medical centre, wait for help, and let the victim wait there in suffering. Well done. You might as well let the victim die. Then the SAF will suffer another hole through its armour with ammunition from the public.

Some problems are simply unsolvable - at least on the side of our camp, and our company. We have a problem with dogs coming in to disturb our rubbish bins at night. By the next morning, there is a strew of litter all over the ground. The solution? Latches on the rubbish bin covers. No, say the big shots. There are two solutions: stop feeding the dogs, or catch the dogs. Now, the thing is, the dogs are being fed by the people at the armour regiments. These dogs habituate at the engineers' area, so besides going to the armour side, they will obviously have the same thinking that the engineers will also feed them like what the armour people do. And you can't catch all the dogs because there is a colony of them, with some even capable of leaving the camp area and wandering outfield.

Our platoon faces the worst-case scenario: entering the war room with eight ideas, only to have ALL of them shot down.

I remember going in there feeling rather relaxed and quite confident that we had quite good ideas. If we did this well, we would be free to enjoy ourselves for the rest of the day and not come back tomorrow.

Sergeant Dexter is the first to go up with his idea of the safety sign, which I have described above. He sticks the huge sheet of paper with the idea written on it onto the wall, and begins.

When he finishes, the room goes silent as the audience - the OC, the 2IC, the CSM, the PCs and the PS's - ponder over the idea. We presenters are sitting - or rather, standing there, for Sergeant Dexter and those who cannot find a place to sit - in the very same room but with no clue what the others are thinking. It's either one option: accepted or rejected.

It is rejected. The reason has been given in an earlier paragraph about this idea.

The next, the third, all rejected. The third one, about a modified jerry can, is the fastest to be canned. Mingjie raises the paper to view its contents; the inversion on the other side of the paper is caught by Doraemon, who is sitting across the room. "I thought I said no to this one earlier this morning," he says plainly. Apparently he had made his rounds while we were writing and drawing up the posters before lunch.

Now it is my turn to present the fourth idea - a modified SAF trolley. We've lost three, now I must fight to get this idea accepted. I explain that the woes of the current trolley. The trolley is a necessity in moving a large amount of things around the unit and the camp. We use it to ship rubbish to the dump which is almost a five-minute walk from our company line. We use it to transport items to the tank park, or to other buildings within the unit. The roads are badly weathered and roughed-up; vibrations are huge as the trolley trundles over the uneven surface. To minimise the risk of dropping things on the floor while using the trolley, why not install straps onto the trolley to secure our things in place before we push off?

Suddenly, I'm fired with a salvo of questions about what makes a quality project; what statistics there are to prove that this project is worthy to be channelled to those people up there . . . questions, questions, questions that send me into a blur . . . I feel like I've just been massacred by a firing squad. At that very moment, I just feel like running away and take a breather . . . it's too hot inside, even with the windows opened; the air too suffocating.

As the story goes, everything is finished by the time we finish. We trudge down the stairs, disheartened and very anxious because we have to come up with a whole new set of five required ideas. No, eight, in the event that there are rejections.

The whole platoon is mobilised (only the presenters remain at the chalet) from all their activities for a crisis meeting, whose agenda is to come up with as many ideas as possible. Most people are quite brain-dead from creative thinking for the past week. Brain-writing day last week was the most fruitful, with a hundred-and-sixty ideas churned out, as I mentioned in my previous post. However, only three are found to be the most "sensible". Yesterday, we came up with another five or six more "sensible" ideas. Today, all of them are gone. It means starting all over again. Hear that: all over again.

As usual, tempers flare. While I read the comments given by those at the top, some people begin to cut me in halfway and demand why the commanders made such remarks, and why didn't we argue in this or that direction. The presenters feel quite irritated that we have to be caught in crossfire again. "Why didn't you go up and present with us earlier? Now you come and tell us all these, it's too late. The only thing we can do now is to think up of new ideas, or at least re-consider the arguments to save the rejected projects."

All throughout dinner the thinking continues. An hour before the next round of presentations, Sergeant Goh consolidates the accepted ideas that had been thought up within the last three hours, and hustles a few of us up to the room to showcase.

All-in-all, the second round is a better experience. Two ideas are accepted, but not wholly accepted: Medic Tu's Medic Man-pack, which the OC and CSM ask for a model. A communications helmet rack in the tank, which teeters on the edge of welcome and goodbye.

This time round, the PS's and the PCs had the lesser tendency to veto; rather they tried to support the ideas, because seriously if they killed whatever was being showcased during the second round, they might as well end up with nothing. They tried to speak up for us, and we are grateful for that. Only the stupid Garfield keeps trying to kill ideas by demanding statistics and all that shit, which Sergeant Goh attempts to counteract.

Apparently we have been lied to, because five from each platoon is not really the required sum: that was made up to force us to think of ideas. Anyway we get our one-day off the next day, which is a blessing already.

Talk about booking out from the chalet . . .

1. Happy Birthday, Doraemon. We'll definitely ensure you have a soggily unforgettable event.

2. Listening to ABBA. ABBA rocks! (I mean, they're also a rock-and-roll group . . . okay, that's lame . . .)

* * *

Pride Camp is held at the Coasta Sands Resort at East Coast Park. We have half a day off in the morning for burning our Saturday for live-firing in September; the other half will take place on Wednesday. A half-morning off-in-lieu is pretty useless, as you can't do much. Think of it: you wake up, wash up, have your breakfast, and then consider the time you have to take to travel to your destination; you are merely left with one or two hours to enjoy and do whatever you want.

I decide to cycle to the resort, although I live further away than before. I don't really like the idea of having to walk quite a distance into the resort from the bus stop, the nearest being outside Mandarin Gardens. It means having to take an MRT to Bedok, thereafter hopping onto a bus to get to Marine Parade Road. Besides, if I cycle there I can go cycling with the guys if they want to, without having to pay for anything.

It can be frightening leaving Lau Kel Wei to look for a place on his own. He hasn't been to a lot of places, so he's not familiar with the routes and all that. There is the danger of him getting lost somewhere, and he can't even identify his location, which makes it difficult for us to pinpoint him too. Instructions on travelling have to made clear to him as well, which means phrasing our sentences in such a way that he does not misinterpret it for something else. This afternoon, he is at the McDonald's at East Coast Park, looking for the directions to get to the chalet. He calls us. I am given the phone to pass directions. I tell him, walk in the direction of Changi Airport. But DON'T walk all the way to Changi Airport. The chalet consists of red-coloured buildings. I offer him a landmark: the huge pond opposite VJC.

Time passes. Still, he isn't here. It begins to pour. I call him. He's with Ang. They are seeking shelter. Which shelter, they don't know. They can't identify any nearby landmark. We decide to organise a search party to get them. Not knowing whether they are on the side of the resort towards the UDMC Seafood Centre or the McDonald's, four of set off, two to tackle each direction. I decide to call him again to ask which barbecue pit he is near. He tells us he is inside the resort compound. Thank goodness. We walk towards the clubhouse, and there he is, with Ang and Shi Hao, walking towards us.

Sometimes, being in the military, you can't even escape from it in civilian life. In order to count strength, PS David has to resort to using "fall in platoon level", while pronouncing "pra-toon" instead of "pla-toon" to make it less obvious, though ineffectively.

The first part of the day is spent cooking up ideas for our WITs. We're pretty burnt out after that brain-writing session last week, where we threw up most of our ideas on the spot, but then all that we thought up were eventually thrown out. Lieutenant James tells us that out of 160, only three have been accepted. Now, that's bad.

Not wanting to cramp up inside the chalet's single bedroom, Alvin, Zhiwei, BH and myself head to the club house. We're going to eat, drink and think up of ideas. Yet, after two hours or so, we've only come up with four ideas, which are promptly rejected when we return back to the chalet and let PS Goh read them.

Before the barbecue, we go cycling. Quite a lot of things have changed, I realise. The old ticketing entrance next to the Seafood Centre has been demolished. So has the fencing surrounding the lagoon. In fact, pavements have been built about the circumference of the lagoon. The cycling track takes on a new direction: a more direct route to the food centre, rather than taking a longer way around the knoll, following the service road.

We cycle to the jetty. Some of the guys decide to take off their shirts, either because they are sweating and feeling hot from the humid though stormy weather, or they realise their shirts are getting dirtied by the water that is shot up from the revolutions of the tyres against the road. My bicycle happens to be the only one that has a carried - the basket behind my seat - so they put their clothing inside. Still, they get wet, because water can permeate through the holes in my basket, and the basket is even closer to the rear of the wheel.

The benefits, however, is that you get spared from being collided into, when the guys decide to ride dangerously and scare one another by swerving or breaking with warning. Their clothes are at stake if your bicycle collapses; they will tumble out and hit the floor, and then you'll hear their owners gasp with stifled horror, while you pick yourself up, bloodied.

The evening is spent eating. The food for the barbeque is provided by the courtesy of SFI. Well done. I hardly eat much - I think my dinner really consists of cuttlefish balls, satay, a piece of curry chicken, two curry potatoes and two slices of baguette.

Many people get carried away to the sea to get dumped. JJ, Ronald, Sergeant Joel, Sergeant Dexter - the list goes on. Every time a party of guys lift the victim, there will be a procession trailing behind. You know there's a photograph of Lee Kuan Yew, wearing a garland around his neck, being lifted up on voters' shoulders as he celebrates his party's first landslide victory. Well, think of something like that, but the victim is not sitting on the shoulder of the carriers. Rather, he is carried by the arms and legs. Yet, the trail of "supporters" following behind retains the same enthusiasm.

At night we celebrate the birthdays of those who have been born in October and November. The two cakes exist no more within minutes, as a food fight erupts, beginning with Doraemon splashing one whole cake onto Guo Yong's face; Guo Yong retaliates with the other cake. The fight soon pulls in other battle players, including the 2IC, PS David, Garfield aka CSM. It's pathetically funny, as the battle players run in and out of the chalet, through the back and front - it's practically a stage of reality drama, or rather, comedy, as we the audience stand on the pavement outside the chalet watching all that is unfolding. New people get provoked to join in the fight, with just a simple splash of cake onto the face in his unknowing. The grand finale: Doraemon gets lifted up and processed to the sea, where he is soaked in "holy water" like all those before him.

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Leg cramp from fast cycling all the way from Coasta Sands to Aljunied. Think of the distance between the halfway-point of Kembangan and Bedok MRT Stations to the Aljunied MRT Station. Now that's how far I cycled. Perpendicularly, it’s the distance from the Tanjong Katong flyover all the way to the Shop and Save near Paya Lebar MRT.