I lost my camera.
This time, this is a real loss, with no regain...
The trip to Jurong East Library with "my boys and girls" went out better than I had supposed. I registered in the National Library Board and ruefully saw the money being deducted from my POSB account. "It is more than worthwhile! A game disc will cost more than $60!"my junior comforted me. After ruminating I found his words bore some sense: one cannot cling to the notion that money concerns most. There are many more things that deserve our foremost attention, like relationship, emotions, and memories.
Memories. And I lost a "camera" of memories today.
Immersing in the supreme content and bliss after visiting the JE Library with my juniors, I offered to bring them to the Science Centre, which was a mere 8 minutes' walk. Guided by the road signs, we felt that we were each other's safety nets. We chatted jovially all the way until three big words "Singapore Science Centre" greeted our eyes. We bought the most economic kind of tickets and got into the various atria and ventricles of the giant gallery.
Peeping throught the holes...standing in front of an amazing picture...imagining a life in the fish bowl...tricks on the eyes...
We roamed in the Optic Zone until our eyes could not see straight, and all the while I was holding my precious camera, trying to capture some snapshots for my adorable juniors. My sister reprimanded me for taking too many photos instead of paying attention to the physical principles. I had never thought that if I abided by her "rule" and "principle", my camera would not have been taken and I would have been spared of all those predicaments.
Laughing in front of a column of light...reading carefully in the Magnetic Zone..."oohing and aahing" as mysteries of science unfolded in front of us...
I lost track of my footprints, lost track of the time, lost track of my "sense". All I could feel was happiness, tremendous happiness.
Then I stepped into the Discovery Zone...
In the Eco Garden, I played a bridge with one of "my girls". The bricks of the bridge were of the same colour as my camera, which paved the road for my later lament. We failed many times in building the bridge before I decided to really put my heart in it. Then for a slip of mind, I took off the camera from my wrist and began to build the bridge.
It was done. Without a second thought, I joined one of "my boys" to play with the shadows.
"5, 4, 3, 2, 1, BOOM!" the shadow appeared and we uttered a subsued scream.
After the BOOM! I involuntorily slipped my hand into my bag in search of the camera to photo the shadow. And I felt my heart skipped a beat--the camera disappeared!
I immediately went to the Bridge but it was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey! There is another shadow!" the junior called me. I played the shadow perfunctorily again out of politeness and felt really surrounded by an immense shadow.
A Thai man was building the Bridge now and my camera was inside someone's bag, I surmise.
My first thought was to report. But by the time I went out of the Eco Garden, the lightning show was in progress in the main atrium. Everywhere was darkness except the explosive sound of the eletronized air particles dancing around, making ominous screams and dazzling sparks. I felt hopeless, scared as a sense of foreboding began to creep in. Pushing on person after another, I squeezed out of the Atrium, ignoring the lightning show, feeling better out of the concealment of the dark.
My voice quavered with emotion as I reported to the assistant. He must find me amusing, foolish, and reckless at the same time. I rushed through the form and dived into the Eco Garden again, passing throught the applausing crowd.
Still, It was nowhere to be seen.
Remorse was of no use, there was no way to repent for this loss.
I made a phone call home, and as they suggested, enjoyed the rest part of my tour.
Those unretrievable memories, I will try to get them again...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Orchard
Inside Ngee Ann City
This Wednesday I went to Kinokuniya Bookshop with my sister to hunt for good ones. It is my first time to step into such a grand bookshop here, with purpose, especially. The outing was awe-striking and soothing. This is not hard to understand because Thanksgiving and Christmas are drawing near. You can feel the festive mood almost everywhere----indeed a season of giving.
A season of indulgence.
So for once my sister and I went to indulge in the bookshop. We were born bookworms. Since I was capable of reading, I have been developed a rooted love for books. Just like someone whose saliva flows when he sees food, we find the temptation of books almost irresistable. At about age four, I could make good use of my tree-climbing skills to scramble up my parents' cupboard and search for books. Our discovery was a disappointing story book, quite thick, though. We kept reading days after days, and when we finished, we turned to the prologue and reread all over again. At that time I was too familiar with the plots that I could memorise some pieces word by word.
I also put a science FAQ book in my treasure trove. The book have been reread so many times that that bookspine was broken. My mother had to sew the book pages together like sewing clothes. Of course we were reluctant to throw any books away, books were not cheap at that time. For now, one of my most regrettable things was that I sold two collections of detective stories in a random flea market for eight RMB to buy snacks and drinks. We found those rotten-to-the-core stories unattractive. But later, we almost went mad to procure them.
Back to the book store. Lingering in a book store is such an indulgence for us that when our parents went shopping in some exclusive mansions, we invariably argued for a place in a book store. We could kneel there reading for hours while they went on bargain-hunting or drolling in front of Armarni Suit, Jeans West, Ballide, etc, etc. The longer they lingered, the merrier we became. When they finally came to fetch us, we were always in a state of glueing to the pages. It took them much trouble to break the adhesion.
Indeed, a book store is the ultimate "getaway" for us. Just imagine losing yourself in the pages! It is better escapade from reality than eye-soring computer games.
And it makes you "feel something" when you are in some place like Kinokuniya.
"Next station, Orchard!"
We began to barge our way towards the door.
"Doors opening, please mind the platform gap."
We merrily alighted and swam forward with the human tide. Almost all well-heeled people in the train poured out like scurrying ants, and we found ourselves involuntorily pushed towards the outlet leading to the Orchard Road.
Fine. That was where we were going.
Unfortunately, we went in the wrong direction towards Shaw Centre which led us away from Ngee Ann City. We realised our mistake at the end of the Orchard Road( so blunt!) and made a U-turn before merrily walking up again.
We entered Ngee Ann City through the glass door of Takashimaya and went headlong to the escalator which took us to the book store in no time. The next three hours, we were swimming in it with other trouts, eels, salmons and octupuses before finally paying for our treasure at the counter. It was soothing to see our carefully chosen books being wrapped for us in a delicate manner. It was great to purchase in such a classy place.
To spice up our date, we went to Wisma Atria to have dinner. The top-level Foodrepublic was nicely decorated to fit the Yuletide ambience. Sitting in a quiet corner with someone special is a real treat, a real enjoyment of solitude away from civilasation.
And don't forget, Christmas light-up is on now:)
I want to say "Hi" to Father Christmas!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Bugis
It is a wondrous feeling of knowing where to go but having no inkling on your exact destination. Our yesterday's expedition was just wondrous enough to prove that.
The peaceful morning was broken when an unfamiliar phone call informed me that the suitcase I was expecting had been left at Oxford Hotel. It gave me the number of the hotel, which marked the beginning of my adventure.
The suitcase had passed numerous check points and had been sleeping and snorting in a luggage airplane for several uncomfortable hours before finally landed in Singapore. However, it was not easy for it to get to its resting place. Almost weeks before, I was informed of its existence and went through a marathon battle so as to conceptualise its contents. After corresponding with my dear mother who compiled the "red-dated letter" indicating the contents of the luggage, we were happily waiting for the arrival of our "goodie bag", from which we could draw sustenance.
The tracking down of the luggage began when I dialled the number of the Oxford Hotel. A friendly female receptionist answered the phone and was delighted to find my identity corresponding with the one expected. My first task was finished. Except fpr clarifying my identity to the unknown receptionist, I got the extra information that Oxford Hotel is situated on Queen Street, Bugis. This extra snippet spared me the trouble to search in the heavy, cumbersome street directory.
Bolstered by a surge of confidence, we began our expedition after a good, nice noon nap. The dark clouds began to amass as we hurried toward the busstop, and we scurried quickly like ants moving tidbits of food into their cave. With some foresight which later proved to be comfortingly necessary, I borrowed a long-handle umbrella from the office guard. Walking on the street with such a medieval-looking umbrella, we felt embarrasment began to settle in, but we kept ignoring passerby's inquisitive looks and held our heads high.
The arrival at Bugis was just as wondrous. Actually, I was not at all familiar with the peripheries. Having been there for only three times, I could only make out some basic facts like Victoria Street being perpendicular to Middle Street and that one MRT exit leading directly into the Bugis Junction. As for iconic buildings, I know there is a National Library and SGH(Singapore General Hospital) where I had my medical check-up one year ago, and that is how far my sketchy knowledge could manage to go.
My sister was a believer of her hunches, to which I reserved a grain of doubt. But I was sure she got lucky by following her "hunches" yesterday. To my amazement, she applied her hunches all the way and I was embarrassed to admit that the route she had chosen was the shortest route possible! Adding to the wondrous feeling, we also got the chance to mill around in the main streets of Bugis and had quite a satisfying sightseeing, of course, before we collected the heavy suitcase.
As for the suitcase, the collecting of it took almost less than three minutes. We were self-conscious enough to groom ourselves again before stepping into the hotel when we realised how home-like the place was. Due to the presence of a bunch of Chinese-dialect-speaking hotel dwellers, we found it almost a relaxing and pleasant experience to get into the seemingly formidable building. That dialect happened to be the kind which I had no difficulty understanding. This kind of home feeling greatly boosted my morale as I attempted to ask the receptionist. After showing my Ezlink Card, the male receptionist who dressed like a bartender delightfully handed me the suitcase after me signing a "receipt". We were all glad that the procedure could be such easy.
With all our might, we dragged the heavy suitcase back home. It might sound easy but was anything but easy. I still remember how I rushed through the zebra line pulling the luggage with the electronic sign beeping alarmingly; and my funny position when going down by an escalator with the wheels of the suitcase one level upon me. To make the whole thing more "wonderful", the rain began to slushing down when we arrived at Clementi. When the bus finally arrived, I clumsily hauled the luggage on board while my sister opening the medieval umbrella to shield me from the downpour.
However, we were not spared of the shower when we realised disappointedly that we had to walk over a flyover before getting into the comfort zone. And no need to mention, we were drenched at our backs as if flattening right down into the water like two pieces of leaves.
These were all very wondrous with great fun, weren't they? Provided that my sister and I had not had private time together for almost one week.
The peaceful morning was broken when an unfamiliar phone call informed me that the suitcase I was expecting had been left at Oxford Hotel. It gave me the number of the hotel, which marked the beginning of my adventure.
The suitcase had passed numerous check points and had been sleeping and snorting in a luggage airplane for several uncomfortable hours before finally landed in Singapore. However, it was not easy for it to get to its resting place. Almost weeks before, I was informed of its existence and went through a marathon battle so as to conceptualise its contents. After corresponding with my dear mother who compiled the "red-dated letter" indicating the contents of the luggage, we were happily waiting for the arrival of our "goodie bag", from which we could draw sustenance.
The tracking down of the luggage began when I dialled the number of the Oxford Hotel. A friendly female receptionist answered the phone and was delighted to find my identity corresponding with the one expected. My first task was finished. Except fpr clarifying my identity to the unknown receptionist, I got the extra information that Oxford Hotel is situated on Queen Street, Bugis. This extra snippet spared me the trouble to search in the heavy, cumbersome street directory.
Bolstered by a surge of confidence, we began our expedition after a good, nice noon nap. The dark clouds began to amass as we hurried toward the busstop, and we scurried quickly like ants moving tidbits of food into their cave. With some foresight which later proved to be comfortingly necessary, I borrowed a long-handle umbrella from the office guard. Walking on the street with such a medieval-looking umbrella, we felt embarrasment began to settle in, but we kept ignoring passerby's inquisitive looks and held our heads high.
The arrival at Bugis was just as wondrous. Actually, I was not at all familiar with the peripheries. Having been there for only three times, I could only make out some basic facts like Victoria Street being perpendicular to Middle Street and that one MRT exit leading directly into the Bugis Junction. As for iconic buildings, I know there is a National Library and SGH(Singapore General Hospital) where I had my medical check-up one year ago, and that is how far my sketchy knowledge could manage to go.
My sister was a believer of her hunches, to which I reserved a grain of doubt. But I was sure she got lucky by following her "hunches" yesterday. To my amazement, she applied her hunches all the way and I was embarrassed to admit that the route she had chosen was the shortest route possible! Adding to the wondrous feeling, we also got the chance to mill around in the main streets of Bugis and had quite a satisfying sightseeing, of course, before we collected the heavy suitcase.
As for the suitcase, the collecting of it took almost less than three minutes. We were self-conscious enough to groom ourselves again before stepping into the hotel when we realised how home-like the place was. Due to the presence of a bunch of Chinese-dialect-speaking hotel dwellers, we found it almost a relaxing and pleasant experience to get into the seemingly formidable building. That dialect happened to be the kind which I had no difficulty understanding. This kind of home feeling greatly boosted my morale as I attempted to ask the receptionist. After showing my Ezlink Card, the male receptionist who dressed like a bartender delightfully handed me the suitcase after me signing a "receipt". We were all glad that the procedure could be such easy.
With all our might, we dragged the heavy suitcase back home. It might sound easy but was anything but easy. I still remember how I rushed through the zebra line pulling the luggage with the electronic sign beeping alarmingly; and my funny position when going down by an escalator with the wheels of the suitcase one level upon me. To make the whole thing more "wonderful", the rain began to slushing down when we arrived at Clementi. When the bus finally arrived, I clumsily hauled the luggage on board while my sister opening the medieval umbrella to shield me from the downpour.
However, we were not spared of the shower when we realised disappointedly that we had to walk over a flyover before getting into the comfort zone. And no need to mention, we were drenched at our backs as if flattening right down into the water like two pieces of leaves.
These were all very wondrous with great fun, weren't they? Provided that my sister and I had not had private time together for almost one week.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Daniel Craig and 007
James Bond is back again!(drum hitting)
That's him!
I have been setting an eye on "Quantum of Solace" since Daniel Craig began to appear in the premieres of the new 007 sequel all over the world. Matching to my analytical nature, I have developed a deep interest in detective stories and spy movies since I was a little girl. I still remember how I got mesmerised in Conan series and Agatha Christie's books, stealing time to read them at nap-time, staying overlong in the toilet to finish a chapter, and having fervent discussions on the plots and characters. Invariably, sometimes I got too scared by the cruel actions of the villains and it was time for my mother to step in and console me by insisting that only minorities faced that kind of danger. In this way, my passion and fear for eerie vocations like detectives and spys grow at the same time.
When I was old enough to interpret movies, there came the Oscar award-winning blockbuster "Bodyguard" and then the seemingly endless series of 007 movies. My mother is a fan of Bond. I do not know exactly which actor she likes. At the time she introduced the omnipotent, observant and intelligent Bond to me, surely it was not Daniel Craig. According to the time, perhaps her hero was somewhere between Pierce Brosnan and Timothy Dalton, or even earlier, Roger Moore. I could not tell.
The first 007 movie I watched was the hot-to-the-core "Golden Eye" spearheaded by Pierce Brosnan. Intrigued by the stunts in the film, though I could not grasp the relationship between characters, I could definitely have a superb visual feast. Action scenes have always been one characteristic feature of Bond movies (I do not deny there are other iconic features), but beyond pure fighting and revenging, there are more witty and humorous elements in the series that keep audience engaged. Undoubtedly, "Quantum of Solace" is not an exception.
Following the plot of "Casino Royale" which I have not watched, the new sequel focuses on the revenges which are carried forward in double lines, James Bond's and Camillie's. The movie shows an array of characters which deepens the theme of the movie, including the feisty Camillie, the villainous Dominic Greene, the brave M16 agent Strawberry Field, the lusty exiled General Medrano and the retired agent Marthis. The destinies of these characters are entwined as the truth was gradually uncovered, increasing the complexity of the plot while stimulating people to ponder about it.
Another impressive bonus point of the film is showing two scenes with similar atmosphere craftily and simultaneously . In the beginning scene, when Bond was hunting down Mitchell, the exciting Palio di Siena(Italian horse race) was in progress. Similarly, when Bond disrupted the planning of Tierra Project by Quantum members, the Italian composer Puccini's tragedic opera reverberated in the hall, striking a superb effect. This "double line" strategy makes the movie even more classy and delicate, which I appreciate a lot.
Daniel at the premiere
With Co-star
With Wife
Greene with "flowers" =P
However, I have to admit that not everyone likes 007 movies, considering some violence scenes as well as the accusation that they have the potential to "pollute" young minds. Moreover, not everyone gets intoxicated by Daniel's greenish-blue eyes and his muscular body. Still, I believe that the beauty of arts, including films, exists even in its crudest forms, exists in the reality of our modern life. So, why not sit back, enjoy it and extract its essence while disposing of all the "pollutants" that might get you sick?
Get a ticket and enjoy your time with James Bond.
Yes! This is the one!
That's him!
I have been setting an eye on "Quantum of Solace" since Daniel Craig began to appear in the premieres of the new 007 sequel all over the world. Matching to my analytical nature, I have developed a deep interest in detective stories and spy movies since I was a little girl. I still remember how I got mesmerised in Conan series and Agatha Christie's books, stealing time to read them at nap-time, staying overlong in the toilet to finish a chapter, and having fervent discussions on the plots and characters. Invariably, sometimes I got too scared by the cruel actions of the villains and it was time for my mother to step in and console me by insisting that only minorities faced that kind of danger. In this way, my passion and fear for eerie vocations like detectives and spys grow at the same time.
When I was old enough to interpret movies, there came the Oscar award-winning blockbuster "Bodyguard" and then the seemingly endless series of 007 movies. My mother is a fan of Bond. I do not know exactly which actor she likes. At the time she introduced the omnipotent, observant and intelligent Bond to me, surely it was not Daniel Craig. According to the time, perhaps her hero was somewhere between Pierce Brosnan and Timothy Dalton, or even earlier, Roger Moore. I could not tell.
The first 007 movie I watched was the hot-to-the-core "Golden Eye" spearheaded by Pierce Brosnan. Intrigued by the stunts in the film, though I could not grasp the relationship between characters, I could definitely have a superb visual feast. Action scenes have always been one characteristic feature of Bond movies (I do not deny there are other iconic features), but beyond pure fighting and revenging, there are more witty and humorous elements in the series that keep audience engaged. Undoubtedly, "Quantum of Solace" is not an exception.
Following the plot of "Casino Royale" which I have not watched, the new sequel focuses on the revenges which are carried forward in double lines, James Bond's and Camillie's. The movie shows an array of characters which deepens the theme of the movie, including the feisty Camillie, the villainous Dominic Greene, the brave M16 agent Strawberry Field, the lusty exiled General Medrano and the retired agent Marthis. The destinies of these characters are entwined as the truth was gradually uncovered, increasing the complexity of the plot while stimulating people to ponder about it.
Another impressive bonus point of the film is showing two scenes with similar atmosphere craftily and simultaneously . In the beginning scene, when Bond was hunting down Mitchell, the exciting Palio di Siena(Italian horse race) was in progress. Similarly, when Bond disrupted the planning of Tierra Project by Quantum members, the Italian composer Puccini's tragedic opera reverberated in the hall, striking a superb effect. This "double line" strategy makes the movie even more classy and delicate, which I appreciate a lot.
Daniel at the premiere
With Co-star
With Wife
Greene with "flowers" =P
However, I have to admit that not everyone likes 007 movies, considering some violence scenes as well as the accusation that they have the potential to "pollute" young minds. Moreover, not everyone gets intoxicated by Daniel's greenish-blue eyes and his muscular body. Still, I believe that the beauty of arts, including films, exists even in its crudest forms, exists in the reality of our modern life. So, why not sit back, enjoy it and extract its essence while disposing of all the "pollutants" that might get you sick?
Get a ticket and enjoy your time with James Bond.
Yes! This is the one!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Class Outing
Today we went for the most hilarious class outing I have ever had. The long-awaited night of revelry almost filled everyone with unspeakable joy and indulged us with the best party packages one can ever think of. Here I want to give a special thank-you to dear Valerie Tjota, my first desk-mate in Singapore and one of the most comical person in my class who cheers everyone up with her sanguine disposition while remaining calm and reasonable at critical moments:)
Thank you for giving us such a wonderful night, and thank your whole family for the planning as well as the organising work done for the success of the party. Finally, I want to thank all the participants of 302 who gathered together on this memorable night and made this gathering a hilarious one. I should appreciate the joy brought by you, shared with you, and treasured among us.
One of the highlights of the night is the arrival of Mrs Sabar. To pay a tribute for her and her family's participation, we lined up in two rows like trees by the lane to "greet" her in an unsuitably "formal" way. That really would have got the expected amusing effect were it not for some friends bursting into a laughter at the very moment Mrs Sabar rolled the prim into the pavillion.
Inside the prim was his latest-born son Shukry Auzan bin Sabarrudin with big bright eyes and a chubby face. I played with the baby for quite a while when his brother was engaged in the "fighting" with some boys. Shukry's brother looks adorable at the first sight with his charming big eyes and dolly, curly hair. The little charming boy also has an air of cunningness and childlike belligerence which makes people roll on their backs. While we were playing the hilarious game "charades", he made a big scene by wrestling with Xian Zheng and throwing one of his slippers onto the table. We were all impressed by his energy, though personally I doubt with a grain of guilt whether my sister and I used to "wrestle" like that when we were barely weaned. It is not hard to imagine the difficulty for my mum to handle two children at the same time while keeping an eye on our unexpected acts of "childhood cunningness".
Another highlight of the day was the game, "Passing the Castle". There is not much difference between the game and the traditional Chinese one called "hitting the drum and passing the flower", though the Chinese version sounds more romantic yet less exciting. Bee Leng actually made adjustments to the original game that every forfeit became unexpecting and funny at the same time. Some great minds even came up with the great idea of "painting graffiti on human faces with a lipstick". This made it more like a movie scene. The idea was endearing, though.
Finally came the time to celebrate Valerie's birthday. We all sang the birthday song for the birthday girl as she made a wish and blew the candles. The heartwarming moment climaxize the whole party as the lights went out and lit up again...
Still immersing in the mood of the hilarious party with some jovial friends, I wish our bonding will get stronger and stronger as time slips by, as years pass by and we finally come to a time to say goodbye, to recollect the old times, which will have become "old, good times".
Thank you for giving us such a wonderful night, and thank your whole family for the planning as well as the organising work done for the success of the party. Finally, I want to thank all the participants of 302 who gathered together on this memorable night and made this gathering a hilarious one. I should appreciate the joy brought by you, shared with you, and treasured among us.
One of the highlights of the night is the arrival of Mrs Sabar. To pay a tribute for her and her family's participation, we lined up in two rows like trees by the lane to "greet" her in an unsuitably "formal" way. That really would have got the expected amusing effect were it not for some friends bursting into a laughter at the very moment Mrs Sabar rolled the prim into the pavillion.
Inside the prim was his latest-born son Shukry Auzan bin Sabarrudin with big bright eyes and a chubby face. I played with the baby for quite a while when his brother was engaged in the "fighting" with some boys. Shukry's brother looks adorable at the first sight with his charming big eyes and dolly, curly hair. The little charming boy also has an air of cunningness and childlike belligerence which makes people roll on their backs. While we were playing the hilarious game "charades", he made a big scene by wrestling with Xian Zheng and throwing one of his slippers onto the table. We were all impressed by his energy, though personally I doubt with a grain of guilt whether my sister and I used to "wrestle" like that when we were barely weaned. It is not hard to imagine the difficulty for my mum to handle two children at the same time while keeping an eye on our unexpected acts of "childhood cunningness".
Another highlight of the day was the game, "Passing the Castle". There is not much difference between the game and the traditional Chinese one called "hitting the drum and passing the flower", though the Chinese version sounds more romantic yet less exciting. Bee Leng actually made adjustments to the original game that every forfeit became unexpecting and funny at the same time. Some great minds even came up with the great idea of "painting graffiti on human faces with a lipstick". This made it more like a movie scene. The idea was endearing, though.
Finally came the time to celebrate Valerie's birthday. We all sang the birthday song for the birthday girl as she made a wish and blew the candles. The heartwarming moment climaxize the whole party as the lights went out and lit up again...
Still immersing in the mood of the hilarious party with some jovial friends, I wish our bonding will get stronger and stronger as time slips by, as years pass by and we finally come to a time to say goodbye, to recollect the old times, which will have become "old, good times".
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Three Generations
School ended weeks ago, but there is no holiday mood at all. Being used to the old days of getting "cut" from school after receiving your report books, I am impressed at seeing school as vibrant as usual. Due to the upcoming Open House on 22nd November, uniform groups have been working a long way to make their parades impressive. Meanwhile, performing arts groups are training hard to hone their skills for the Cultural Potpourri in the last minute. Shouting orders from uniform group commandants, beautiful music from the Band, Guzheng and Chinese Orchestra, as well as the construction sounds from the back of our school all contribute to an active, vibrant and exciting atmosphere in the school holiday.
Almost all these elements seem to ensure the meaningfulness of this precious holiday. Standing at the watershed point before going into the graduation class, this holiday is the last buffer we could have before facing the challenges posed by a new year, a crucial academic year, the O Level year.
Today is the last day of O Level examinations for our seniors. Because I had CCA training early in the morning, I arrived at the school gate at 8:30. Unexpectedly, I was stopped by the security guard. O Level was in progress, so we were only supposed to wait for the ending bell to ring, which emanated the beginning of my CCA training, and the end of the O Level marathon for my seniors.
It was a critical moment. Standing at the school gate, facing the iron bars which set us into two different moods, I got a subtle and sweet-bitter feeling that we were seperated in two different worlds. Perhaps they were racking their head for the last essay question when I walked upon the slope towards school along my daily route; perhaps they were letting out a sigh of relieve after putting the last full stop when I set my foot out of my familiar RB0302; perhaps they were checking their answers with adrenalin still pumping down while I put my index finger on the fingerprint scanner...
And my juniors, they were having their Bridging Course, oblivious of the up-and-down feelings of those examtakers. Exams seem a too faraway thing from them, but seem so near at the same time, awaiting them to step into the endless whirl of real excitement and anxiety. They have that kind of faces which lead you back into the time tunnel, those faces shining with the glow of dreams and aspiration, those faces written with determination and endurance, those faces smiling at us in an endearing way, and those faces which make one want to explore more about them, but have to stop and admire involuntarily from distance.
A picture of "three generations" came into my mind: on an expansive field which is impossible to trace its ends and boundaries, walking a man on a grass lane. Shuffling slowly beside him is his father, and on his shoulders is the son. They walk along together, slowly, carefully and firmly, against the expansive greenery of the field. In front of them, there is a golden sun dropping under the horizon. And upon that is the sky, supported by the man's bent back, his father's hunchback and the son's strong arms curving lovingly around his father's neck.
In this holiday, the three generations are to be parted, and heading towards their future on different tracks. The "old" are leaving while the "young" come to replenish. We, stuck in the middle, are the ones who are going to arch up the sky, for the son, and for the grandfather.
It is a holiday to start from a blank sheet of paper, a holiday to continue the long journey, and a holiday to relish the sweetness of the fruit.
A holiday to plow, a holiday to toil, and a holiday to gain...
We three generations~~~
Almost all these elements seem to ensure the meaningfulness of this precious holiday. Standing at the watershed point before going into the graduation class, this holiday is the last buffer we could have before facing the challenges posed by a new year, a crucial academic year, the O Level year.
Today is the last day of O Level examinations for our seniors. Because I had CCA training early in the morning, I arrived at the school gate at 8:30. Unexpectedly, I was stopped by the security guard. O Level was in progress, so we were only supposed to wait for the ending bell to ring, which emanated the beginning of my CCA training, and the end of the O Level marathon for my seniors.
It was a critical moment. Standing at the school gate, facing the iron bars which set us into two different moods, I got a subtle and sweet-bitter feeling that we were seperated in two different worlds. Perhaps they were racking their head for the last essay question when I walked upon the slope towards school along my daily route; perhaps they were letting out a sigh of relieve after putting the last full stop when I set my foot out of my familiar RB0302; perhaps they were checking their answers with adrenalin still pumping down while I put my index finger on the fingerprint scanner...
And my juniors, they were having their Bridging Course, oblivious of the up-and-down feelings of those examtakers. Exams seem a too faraway thing from them, but seem so near at the same time, awaiting them to step into the endless whirl of real excitement and anxiety. They have that kind of faces which lead you back into the time tunnel, those faces shining with the glow of dreams and aspiration, those faces written with determination and endurance, those faces smiling at us in an endearing way, and those faces which make one want to explore more about them, but have to stop and admire involuntarily from distance.
A picture of "three generations" came into my mind: on an expansive field which is impossible to trace its ends and boundaries, walking a man on a grass lane. Shuffling slowly beside him is his father, and on his shoulders is the son. They walk along together, slowly, carefully and firmly, against the expansive greenery of the field. In front of them, there is a golden sun dropping under the horizon. And upon that is the sky, supported by the man's bent back, his father's hunchback and the son's strong arms curving lovingly around his father's neck.
In this holiday, the three generations are to be parted, and heading towards their future on different tracks. The "old" are leaving while the "young" come to replenish. We, stuck in the middle, are the ones who are going to arch up the sky, for the son, and for the grandfather.
It is a holiday to start from a blank sheet of paper, a holiday to continue the long journey, and a holiday to relish the sweetness of the fruit.
A holiday to plow, a holiday to toil, and a holiday to gain...
We three generations~~~
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Tea House on Mulberry Street
This is a simple, cosy evening, though I still feel a little dizzy and tipsy after the whole day's hardwork. It was not a particularly exhausting day, nor did I drink anything alcoholic, but I feel certain heaviness in my head, perhaps I just catch a cold. However, I am very grateful that one person can erase all my heaviness in head and let me indulge in a peaceful night reading from a delightful paperback in my hands.
The person is Sharon Owens and the book is "The Tea House on Mulberry Street".
A book with a name like that never seems appealing to anyone. In fact, I was only attracted by its delicate cover with mouth-watering cherry cheesecake, added with a teapot with carved clovers as well as a pair of delicate tea cups. This kind of cover is extremely soothing and warming in a winter night, lightening up your imagination of a hot cup of cappuccino lying on a tea-house table with a dish of chargrilled chicken strips and a bowl of carrot and chestnut soup with cream and croutons by its side... I forgot there is no winter here, only dry and wet seasons with south-east monsoons come and go...Back to track, what attracts me more is that the book is a NO.1 Irish Bestseller bearing high accolades from Cecelia Ahern, whose blockbuster brainchild was "PS, I Love You".
Though I used to snub those books labelled "bestseller", I found this one extremely curiosity-piqueing. Is it something like Chinese writter Lao She's Teahouse? Or is it beautifully written in a modern way? Does it show a kaleidoscope of people in a teahouse, while revealing some hidden secrets in the fast-spinning society? Or something really Irish? I did not hesitate to read it.
And it is satisfyingly great, with stories entwined with each other, intersecting, twisting, developing into a multi-layer tapestry. All is well that ends well, but it is not the kind of Hollywood ending which makes tragedy lovers moan over and over. It is a light sitcom without blatant laughters, yet it indeed makes it hard for one to restrain some heart-felt chuckles.
All is well that ends well. Everyone got what they deserved, bless or punishment.
After flipping to the last page of this light comedy, I can almost smell the flagrance of cherry cheesecake lingering in our bedroom, which is dimly lit by a bedside-lamp, as my mind drifting out into the tea house on Mulberry Street.
Cheers for Penny and Daniel who own the tea house, and their son Danny!
The person is Sharon Owens and the book is "The Tea House on Mulberry Street".
A book with a name like that never seems appealing to anyone. In fact, I was only attracted by its delicate cover with mouth-watering cherry cheesecake, added with a teapot with carved clovers as well as a pair of delicate tea cups. This kind of cover is extremely soothing and warming in a winter night, lightening up your imagination of a hot cup of cappuccino lying on a tea-house table with a dish of chargrilled chicken strips and a bowl of carrot and chestnut soup with cream and croutons by its side... I forgot there is no winter here, only dry and wet seasons with south-east monsoons come and go...Back to track, what attracts me more is that the book is a NO.1 Irish Bestseller bearing high accolades from Cecelia Ahern, whose blockbuster brainchild was "PS, I Love You".
Though I used to snub those books labelled "bestseller", I found this one extremely curiosity-piqueing. Is it something like Chinese writter Lao She's Teahouse? Or is it beautifully written in a modern way? Does it show a kaleidoscope of people in a teahouse, while revealing some hidden secrets in the fast-spinning society? Or something really Irish? I did not hesitate to read it.
And it is satisfyingly great, with stories entwined with each other, intersecting, twisting, developing into a multi-layer tapestry. All is well that ends well, but it is not the kind of Hollywood ending which makes tragedy lovers moan over and over. It is a light sitcom without blatant laughters, yet it indeed makes it hard for one to restrain some heart-felt chuckles.
All is well that ends well. Everyone got what they deserved, bless or punishment.
After flipping to the last page of this light comedy, I can almost smell the flagrance of cherry cheesecake lingering in our bedroom, which is dimly lit by a bedside-lamp, as my mind drifting out into the tea house on Mulberry Street.
Cheers for Penny and Daniel who own the tea house, and their son Danny!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Acer's Adventure
There has always been a sense of shame in me since I broke my laptop.
I was typing that day when my Acer suddenly blacked out. It was not unusual at all since this kind of "small accident" had happened many times before. Realising that I had not saved my document yet, I was inundated by a surge of frustration. Glaring at the jet-black screen in front of me, I felt an unquenchable desire to knock it down. Fortunately, my sense was regained before I committed the serious "crime", but something bad was doomed to occur. 30 seconds later, I pushed the power-on button to restart my laptop when I heard an ominous crack.
At first I thought it was either Fred or George Apparated in my room, but seconds later the reality began to set in----the poor button was ripped off by me. I could not help feeling panicky when I peered inside the slit where the button was and met with nothing but pitch-darkness. Fumbling around the table for a toothstick to poke into the slit, I for the second time was ominously struck, because now the broken parts of the switch began to emerge, as if gloating to me with an air of arrogance:"See! I am out, and I am broken!"
I felt an urge to commit a serious crime again.
What happened next was doubtlessly clear. My sister came up into the room and glowered at me like a lioness. She held a strong belief that I was the culprit and what's more, a bona fide "barbarian". She said that word with a particular relish which made my hair stand on end. However, no matter what a "barbarian" I might be, the wrong was done, and someone was accountable for it, which was me, fair and clear. I explained again and again that I had been very gentle to it but only ghosts would believe in it. "Obviously, only a barbarian have the strength to rip that off!" was my sister's accusation. I was cornered and did no try to blame anyone anymore.
But there was one thing to be blamed on, and that was my laptop.
The old-to-core antique had brought about many discussions, quarrels and controversies even before it made a flight to Singapore. It had been a torturing headache right at the beginning of the pack-up. "Do we really need to bring it here? What if it comes here and becomes a useless junk? How long will it live to see the sunshine? Where can we even find someone to look at it when it goes wrong?" All those questions seemed to verdict its death even before it tried to survive, but all those assumptions and anxieties were not totally out of blue! We had the right to question its reliability since it was so old.
It was really very old with an age of eight years. Once I told Robert its age when he tried to fix it and he almost jumped out of his skin. What an antique! With the knowledge that when people get old they become senile even before they get dementia or Alzheimer's disease, I could safely deduce that something was going rickety there right inside the old bones of my eight-year-old Acer.
Despite all the paranoid assumptions, unscientific deductions and unfair accusations, we finally gave the "potential junk" an opportunity to fly here, and this is its destiny: being a bona-fide junk while reducing me into a bona-fide barbarian.
Today, my sister and I finally made it a point to make a decision: getting it repaired or getting it disposed of, while making a contribution to Singapore's landfill enterprise at the same time. So, without further ado, we went to the Little India, not to indulge ourselves in the curry stores, but to "make a decision".
We carried our poor Acer to Sim Lim Square and homed in on the repair stalls. Among those who received us, some were Chinese while others were Indians. They were all very helpful while some suggested us to dispose of it right away and others made an effort to look into the pitch-dark slit before sincerely recommending us to get a new one.
So the answer was quite clear----I was a murderer, directly responsible to the fate of our Acer, the 8-year-old antique which had not had a dementia or Alzheimer's disease yet.
And perhaps I am a barbarian, too?
I felt guilty, but it is a dubious guilt, because I did not exactly know whether it died of its old age or of my accused barbaric push. If it were the latter, I should have moaned even harder.
Perhaps the only soul who could have given me the answer was Acer, the poor thing who had not a chance to make a flight back again, not alive.
And I felt a sense of shame again. Oh! This barbarian!
I was typing that day when my Acer suddenly blacked out. It was not unusual at all since this kind of "small accident" had happened many times before. Realising that I had not saved my document yet, I was inundated by a surge of frustration. Glaring at the jet-black screen in front of me, I felt an unquenchable desire to knock it down. Fortunately, my sense was regained before I committed the serious "crime", but something bad was doomed to occur. 30 seconds later, I pushed the power-on button to restart my laptop when I heard an ominous crack.
At first I thought it was either Fred or George Apparated in my room, but seconds later the reality began to set in----the poor button was ripped off by me. I could not help feeling panicky when I peered inside the slit where the button was and met with nothing but pitch-darkness. Fumbling around the table for a toothstick to poke into the slit, I for the second time was ominously struck, because now the broken parts of the switch began to emerge, as if gloating to me with an air of arrogance:"See! I am out, and I am broken!"
I felt an urge to commit a serious crime again.
What happened next was doubtlessly clear. My sister came up into the room and glowered at me like a lioness. She held a strong belief that I was the culprit and what's more, a bona fide "barbarian". She said that word with a particular relish which made my hair stand on end. However, no matter what a "barbarian" I might be, the wrong was done, and someone was accountable for it, which was me, fair and clear. I explained again and again that I had been very gentle to it but only ghosts would believe in it. "Obviously, only a barbarian have the strength to rip that off!" was my sister's accusation. I was cornered and did no try to blame anyone anymore.
But there was one thing to be blamed on, and that was my laptop.
The old-to-core antique had brought about many discussions, quarrels and controversies even before it made a flight to Singapore. It had been a torturing headache right at the beginning of the pack-up. "Do we really need to bring it here? What if it comes here and becomes a useless junk? How long will it live to see the sunshine? Where can we even find someone to look at it when it goes wrong?" All those questions seemed to verdict its death even before it tried to survive, but all those assumptions and anxieties were not totally out of blue! We had the right to question its reliability since it was so old.
It was really very old with an age of eight years. Once I told Robert its age when he tried to fix it and he almost jumped out of his skin. What an antique! With the knowledge that when people get old they become senile even before they get dementia or Alzheimer's disease, I could safely deduce that something was going rickety there right inside the old bones of my eight-year-old Acer.
Despite all the paranoid assumptions, unscientific deductions and unfair accusations, we finally gave the "potential junk" an opportunity to fly here, and this is its destiny: being a bona-fide junk while reducing me into a bona-fide barbarian.
Today, my sister and I finally made it a point to make a decision: getting it repaired or getting it disposed of, while making a contribution to Singapore's landfill enterprise at the same time. So, without further ado, we went to the Little India, not to indulge ourselves in the curry stores, but to "make a decision".
We carried our poor Acer to Sim Lim Square and homed in on the repair stalls. Among those who received us, some were Chinese while others were Indians. They were all very helpful while some suggested us to dispose of it right away and others made an effort to look into the pitch-dark slit before sincerely recommending us to get a new one.
So the answer was quite clear----I was a murderer, directly responsible to the fate of our Acer, the 8-year-old antique which had not had a dementia or Alzheimer's disease yet.
And perhaps I am a barbarian, too?
I felt guilty, but it is a dubious guilt, because I did not exactly know whether it died of its old age or of my accused barbaric push. If it were the latter, I should have moaned even harder.
Perhaps the only soul who could have given me the answer was Acer, the poor thing who had not a chance to make a flight back again, not alive.
And I felt a sense of shame again. Oh! This barbarian!
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