Wednesday, August 31, 2005
` Wednesday, August 31, 2005
If I were to continue on this 10-hour work stint any longer than a week, I think I may just as well end up moonlighting as one of the cast of The Land of the Dead.
It probably has something to do with an extended exposure to the western work culture, when I was on assignment with some colleagues from London, a couple of months back. In Bangalore, one of them expressed utter disbelief when I told her that working past 6pm is de rigeur in most parts of Asia. To them, it is a violation of their working rights (with union-uprising potential) and a deprivation of their personal time. It took awhile before we compromised on the out-of-office hours, but we both came to understand (but not necessarily accept) the disparity in office practices. Point to ponder: if given a choice between exorbitant income taxes and a better quality of life, versus lower taxes but longer working hours, how does one decide, if there is an opportunity to be globally mobile? I can only say that being an adult is real hard work.
One newspaper article highlighted a survey performed on the actual number of hours most people could effectively work in a day. No surprises to find out that on top of emailing friends, web-surfing and catching up on the latest rumour mill with an equally slacker colleague, most of us are really earning our keep for 20% of a working day. Either the employers have been selectively oblivious to the productivity levels, or they themselves are having a field day doing exactly what is supposedly detrimental to revenue generation.
It's pretty evident that I had (till now) almost always had it easy when it came to not working unearthly hours. Meanwhile, the zombification process has just begun.
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Friday, August 26, 2005
` Friday, August 26, 2005
You Belong in London
A little old fashioned, and a little modern.
A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock.
A unique woman like you needs a city that offers everything.
No wonder you and London will get along so well.
(extracted from) What City Do You Belong in?
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I'm slightly bemused by the result of the rather light-hearted quiz. In fact, I have more of a bipolar relationship with the city.
I like it in summer when it's lovely to take a leisurely stroll along the River Thames to soak up the arty and vibrant atmosphere, which admittedly, is sorely lacking back home. I dig the high-street shopping at Oxford Street and Covent Garden for the wannabe fashionista in me. I crave all the time for raisin scones and a good cup of tea.
However, I dread the wet winters, when strong winds and rain aggravate the chilly weather conditions and it becomes a chore just to get a can of Coke from the convenience store 2 walking blocks down the road. I have an issue with the ever-strong British currency, which makes my heart skip a beat each time I look at a 19.99 "bargain" item in the shops. I'm half-convinced that the term "window-shopping" was coined up by a foreigner visiting on a shoestring budget.
Oh, but I am surprised at that punk rock bit. Reason being I'd probably get motion sickness from a headbanging attempt.
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Sunday, August 21, 2005
` Sunday, August 21, 2005
(An over-coffee conversation between 3 friends who have known each other since university days)
J: Yesterday, I went shopping for a diamond ring at (jeweller)'s. It was 0.xx carats encrusted. I shopped around some more and asked to see the more expensive ones, but my mum told me that some of the ring designs were too old-fashioned, so she picked out one for me that she thought would look good on my skinny fingers.........................."
A and Y (shooting each other bewildered jaw-dropping looks): You're buying a diamond ring for... yourself?!?!
Of course, if J was a woman, I could perfectly indulge in the sparkler of a conversation (no pun intended). However, it was absolutely surreal having a conversation with a supposedly straight guy friend over.... jewellery?
I'm starting to wonder if the metrosexual theme has been overly endorsed these days. I'm referring to the heterosexual male who makes an extraordinary effort to look good, to the extent that these men are starting to use skincare (we're not talking about basic soap and water here), love shopping (a bane to men of yore, like my dad) and in David Beckham's case, wear skirts (once considered solely a woman's clothing item).
Female proponents may applaud this new age male, who dispels the common belief that shirts and sneakers are wardrobe staples a guy should have, understands the difference between a toner and an essence and looks unfazed giving you pointers on whether a Birkin's funkier than a Spy bag. I for one, am convinced that the gender divide should stay the way it is. Judging from the trend of having popular male singers with shrill voices, 3-step men skincare and OTT drama serials with men reduced to crying over the smallest of issues, I lament the imminent extinction of the traditional breadwinner with chauvinistic tendencies. Where have all the cowboys gone? Yes, Paula. I'd like to know too.
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Wednesday, August 10, 2005
` Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Not inspired by Milan Kundera but by a recent television programme, which focused on the disturbing increase in cases of anorexia nervosa in Singapore amongst our womenfolk. In a particularly cringe-worthy segment, near-skeletal adolescent girls had no qualms telling the host how much thinner they wanted to be, despite looking worse for wear. A recovered anorexic described how the condition resulted in a downward spiral of guilt, and the body's inability to ingest food at the critical stage of the illness. What was troubling to learn was that about 20% of sufferers may eventually die from weakness or suicide.
Back in the college days, I remembered this girl from my faculty who'd never joined her friends for meals but instead went on extended daily jogging sessions after school. She started to look very gaunt and lost a lot of weight, but it was to the extent that onlookers were concerned about whether she had health problems. I never saw her return to school towards the examination period and after that, which had me convinced that she might have been suffering from the slimmers' disease.
On a less sombre note, I'm slightly troubled by the fact that if a person is genetically predisposed to be thin (for example, yours truly), one is seldom spared from the torrent of 'concern' from well-meaning parties who are convinced that either 1. I'm not eating enough, 2. I will fall sick easily if I don't eat more (seriously, I really don't see the correlation there) or 3. I must be very stressed at work or something's been troubling me (yes, if boredom is considered a stress factor). Still (with no smug intentions), I think the most rhetorical question of all time would be "Why are you so thin?". Up till today, I'm still trying to figure out a politically correct way of answering the question without having to sound 1. arrogant ("Yes, because I'm born thin. Duh."), 2. helpless ("I don't know. Really. I do happen to eat and not throw up my food.") or 3. downright rude ("Oh yes, I guess that's when I'm being compared to you, no?"). Trust me, this is probably tougher to decipher than rocket science.
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Tuesday, August 09, 2005
` Tuesday, August 09, 2005
This is what 6 weeks out of town does to a shopaholic, hell-bent on frittering away her hard-earned money in a mere 5 hours rampaging the stores in Orchard Road. I've never felt a stronger desire to contribute to the local retail industry than today (okay, the last time I felt this way wasn't too long ago), when I set out with nothing but leftover Indian rupees, S$5 and a couple of credit cards in the travel wallet.
It felt like a breath of fresh air to walk the streets, after a long time away from the familiar brands I have grown to love and make a point to visit the stores each time the buying bug hits me. My sister happened to be equally enthusiastic about working the rounds at the various shopping malls today, which greatly contributed to the final haul of purchases that we tried to sneak past our mother, in case she started the neverending "Why do you need so many clothes when you already have so much that you haven't worn" debacle. In a way, I secretly sympathise with my mum, because of the sheer amount of laundry she had to be laddened with daily, and that her memory is constantly being questioned whenever I'd insist that the top I'd be wearing on any particular day is something I bought "a long time ago, you just don't recall, you know.". Evidently, my buying mantra has always been to the tune of "quantity, not (necessarily) quality".
As a result, my sister has been the grateful beneficiary of the stacks of clothes which I have never been successful in taking inventory of. A year ago, I attempted a wardrobe clean-out to rid myself of redundant fashion-victim mistakes, and I was appalled by the fact that there were plenty of items I had never worn nor recalled having made the purchase. In the process, I managed to fill up an entire gunnysack, but the clearing had been abandoned since then. It will take awhile before I'd sum up enough energy to revisit the unwanted clothing and either opt to donate to a charitable organisation (most likely option), sell them off at a flea market (potentially too much of a hassle) or give them to anyone who's looking for a bellbottom sleeved top or something to wear to a fancy dress party. Anyone game for a pair of high-waisted tapered jeans?
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` Tuesday, August 09, 2005
(you have been warned: for those who cannot tolerate the following outpour of national pride, please skip this blog)
I've come to realise that I am more than happy to declare myself a Singaporean. Over the few years of travelling across several cities, I've been asked ad nauseum if Singapore belonged to China or Malaysia, by clueless natives of countries I would rather not mention (bear in mind, these were not citizens of developing nations). After one too many of these Believe-It-Or-Not questions, I often wondered if being born in a tiny island barely the size of an amoeba on the world map had its privileges, when it came down to having sufficient general knowledge to maintain an intelligent conversation. By the way, having a passport that allows an unprecedented level of travelling ease without the need for a visa doesn't hurt as well.
People are always complaining about how little there is to do in Singapore, as compared to vibrant metropolitan cities like New York, Tokyo or London. I agree, to the extent that one has the energy to keep wanting to explore different places every weekend. Even though I pack my bags in eager anticipation of the next overseas holiday, I've been out-ed as the type that revels in familiarity, in my comfort zone of good friends and family. No surprises there, of course.
While on a discussion of the possibility of migration years back, Vieee and myself came to this penultimate conclusion: the best scenario might be to literally ship the entire enclave of loved ones to wherever the desired destination is and live as a self-sufficient mini-community. As a matter of fact, I've never in my life entertained the thought of forsaking my citizenship (Switzerland being the only potential exception, equipped with a Swiss bank account nonetheless). It is not because I'm fanatically nationalistic, but because as much as there are layman issues to be griped about back home, other pressing issues abound in other countries that we'd never have to grapple with in our daily lives. I'm convinced that the grass always looks greener on the other side, but I'm more than happy to stay on my current turf for now.
In any case, the country's been through 40 years of independence, which makes for a relatively young nation constantly threatened by competition from our neighbours and the lack of natural resources to sustain the population. Even though I'd probably be unable to name all the states in America, I'm pretty sure that I won't be asking someone if they still lived on trees (this actually happened to me while touring an European city).
It's good to be home when a country's celebrating its birthday and it's a public holiday. Many happy returns!
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Monday, August 08, 2005
` Monday, August 08, 2005
(occupationally hazardous disclaimer: expressed in my humble opinion)
... is a state of mind where one's pig-headedness clouds and persists in a person's normally rational state of mind. In my case, the condition occurs when I encounter an equally adamant individual hell-bent on proving his or her point of view, without due consideration for a different perspective of an issue at stake.
In the work environment, the solution is simple, particularly in my line of work (people actually call it a profession but I prefer to say I belong to the service industry). Having to face people from all walks of life in many different environments have made me a little more resistant to all manners of reactions, ranging from exchanged pleasantries ("Sure, we'll get document xyz for you as soon as possible.") to stoic indignance ("I don't see your point. Period".). My approach to people who behave like you owe them a living is to persist with a placid smile and eternal patience. (As you can see, I am in dire need of a new line of work, or risk becoming the next Vlad the Impaler).
I might be playing the age card too often, but I realised that I no longer react lightly to people who rub me the wrong way. However, the good news is that only interaction with certain individuals will induce the next level of extreme reaction in me: defiance. My dad prefers to think that by some genetic disposition, I have inherited his temper and have too much of an ego to cave in to another person's demands. Maybe that's what has been deemed to be an inability to suffer fools. Of course, that's just my opinion.
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` Monday, August 08, 2005
This is once again, not an attempt to write a review on a book that was supposedly launched many years ago. Admittedly, I have been slow to pick up on the controversy surrounding its publication (burnt and banned in China, the works) and its sequel, which I had read earlier and mentioned somewhere in another blog.
I was just discussing about the novel with the manager and we agreed that one couldn't really feel for the somewhat self-centred protaganist, who seemed to be taking the sleaze and notoriety all in her stride. In some instances, I felt as though I was browsing through a scene in a Harold Robbins or Jackie Collins novel, and in some instances you wonder if quoting famous philosophers and writers really helped add a touch of sophistication to her writing style. Had my ability to read Chinese been cultivated since taking the 'A' level examinations, I reckoned it would have been much better to read the original text, rather than getting a westerner to translate the book into a rather uneven read.
However, as many detractors as there are admirers of the writer's uninhibited semi-biographical account of her life, I'd see it sit comfortably in the chicklit category, where one reads not get a deep insight into the meaning of life whatsoever, but simply to pass a lazy weekend lying in bed with a light read and a good cup of coffee.
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