no lah

So there I was, striding purposefully along Central on my (n+1)th trip to Hong Kong, when an angmoh stopped me.

"Excuse me, do you know if there is a sporting goods store nearby?" he asked in an American drawl.

"Sorry, I'm not from around here," I replied. I gave a weak smile to make up for not even bothering to think if there were any around, and started to move away. H&M was waiting for me.

"You're from Singapore, aren't you?" he said, stopping me in tracks.

Is my Singlish so jialat that he could make out my nationality in fewer than 10 words? And should I be proud to be so easily identifiable as Singaporean or should I be appalled that my accent is not as neutral as I perceived?

*******

A few days later, I was at a celebrity-spotting type of gala event -- they were sequestered away from us common folks on special mezzanine floors -- and wandering around the cavernous tent looking for photo ops.

After a few half-hearted snaps -- due to suckage at night photography -- I found a spot by the bar where I could take my fashion diary photo. A guy in all black with a heavy duty camera and zoom lens ambled by, presumably a photographer. He didn't look too busy so I asked him if he could help me take a photo.

The first thing he said to me after he returned me my toy camera?

"Are you from Singapore?"

Turned out he was Singaporean too and had been working in Hong Kong for seven years. He joined our little group, and was even reunited with a long-lost friend.

A few days after I left, he very kindly sent an email with more photos of the party and tips on where to shop on future trips -- a case where Singlish comes in handy.

*******

When I related this anecdote to a friend, her face immediately lit up.

Before she could even sputter out the words in her excitement, I quickly burst her bubble: "He's gay. He moved to Hong Kong to be with his boyfriend."

In a sort of related story, a longer while ago, when my dog ran away from home -- somehow managing to open the gate, get out AND shut it behind him -- he invaded the house of my angmoh neighbour one street away.

He called me -- thank god for phone numbers on dog tags -- and assured me he would take care of the runaway canine as I was still at work.

When I finally stopped panicking, I told a colleague I had to go home and collect my dog from the kind neighbour.

She was strangely deflated when I told her that his wife was afraid of dogs: "Oh, there is a wife. I thought this would be one of those stories where you meet someone because your dog ran away."