on free time

It's the typical fantasy of every working man - what would I do if I had all the free time in the world? Answers: varied and plenty, which does not at all explain the behaviour of the people for whom this is reality. I know this because I have, over the past few years, become an inveterate blog-surfer, and could easily point you to the websites of several strangers who seem to do nothing but go through a never-ending cycle of lying around and complaining online about how lying around is all they ever do.

I admit that I slept through most of yesterday's rain-drenched afternoon, something I promised myself today would not happen again. I'm writing, but one can only write for so many hours a day (usually a night-time thing for me), and ploughing through the Classifieds is typically a ten-minute affair on weekday mornings. I figured that I needed something to fill the slow-passing afternoons, so my plan is this. I will

(1) eat, and
(2) walk

It's really quite perfect. I like eating. I like walking. I've always wanted to explore the nooks and crannies of far-flung Singaporean hawker centers as well as the obscure gems near my home that I have overlooked. Food here is cheap, and the walking to places will save on transport as well as make sure I don't end up whale-sized. And I'll get to recommend things to people and become the Guru of Makan-dom, or something.

For my maiden expedition, I decided that Bencoolen Street might be a good place to uncover something tasty. After a fair bit of wandering, I lighted in this new Thai cafe in Sunshine Plaza. Its selling point is that all proceeds from sales go towards charity, and it displays the fact loudly in rather too many places considering that it only seats around 20. The decor is cheery though - cartoon sketches by amateurs on the tables; happy, playgroup colored walls. I had local-style kopi and their purported specialty - steamed bread with a Thai-style kaya. The kaya wasn't really all that different from the Singaporean stuff - less eggy, I guess, and the same hue as the emerald green pencil in a Staedtler colouring set. Tasty nonetheless, and what was different was that it came in a bowl, fondue-style, with a swirl of butter mixed in. (The bread was cut into cubes, for dipping) . Two other plusses: it's a nice place in which to read, and the manager was pleasant and attentive without being irritating. I'll give it a B+.

I took a detour through MacKenzie Road on my way home, bumping into a lost Golden Retriever who tried to pee on me and then ran away. Of course I couldn't resist a Selera curry puff (a thousand times better than Old Chang Kee, which has frankly become quite horrid since the whole franchise thing began), which then made me think about ACPS. When I was in that school, it was still on Coleman Street (where the Registry of Marriages is now), and I used to be ferried home every day in one of those boxy, light blue school buses that let out enough exhaust to kill a small rhinocerous. The bus uncle was a fat, intimidating man, always yelling at the kids in the back to stop being rowdy (and who could blame him? Primary school children really are monsters). Just like in the movies though, heart of gold, etc, and on the last day of every term (or perhaps it was every semester, I forget), he would take a detour from his usual route so that he could treat us all (one whole busload of kids) to curry puffs. I didn't really think much of it at the time, but years later I realized how phenomenally generous that was considering the pittance he must have been making (and I'm sure he had a family to look after too). Anyway, the place we stopped at was on MacKenzie, just across the way from Selera. I think it was called Rex (my dad will be able to confirm this), and it has closed down since, a victim of location and the southward sweep of the center of commerce. As the first kid to be dropped off, I always had the honour of sitting (with Justin P'ng, no less) in the front seat, a honour that also entailed the almighty responsibility of taking Uncle's money, counting the number of kids, sliding off the bus, walking into the store, and purchasing the piping hot treats to be carried out in four large, greasy paper bags. We never took that responsibility lightly. For three years, right up till we finished our PSLE, Justin and I did our duty bravely, and this is why now, when I get my head chewed off as his bridge partner, I know that it's all for my own good. Tested by fire, etc.

That last bit - not serious, but these nostalgia trips, I don't know. I mean, all around me people have become grad students and teachers and doctors and policy-makers, Old Chang Kee has spread like a fungus across the land, and I feel like all I do is look backwards and wish that it was 1990 again. Sometimes I think that reminiscing is the mental equivalent of lying around and complaning; even if it isn't overt, there's always that kernel of desire for regression, atavism. The more I tell myself to look ahead, the stronger the pull to languish in the past.

So I'll try not to nap any more. But maybe eating and walking will, eventually, work out to the same thing.