Tedious medical update: Only for the eyes of those so bored that reading about my baikar is more interesting than work. Have more or less given up on Western medicine, having been on steroids for more than a year, on top of trying at least four other types of pills, but the problem keeps flaring up.

Because of the pain and swelling, I haven't worn heels for close to two months, severely curtailing my clubbing and drinking habits. Which is good, objectively speaking, but no fun at all. Anyway, I've been seeing a sinseh and taking vile Chinese herbs diligently three times a day, and my feet seem better after two weeks.

Was even able to celebrate wearing heels for the first time last Friday with way too many drinks at Zouk. At the last count, I think it was 11. But I digress. So, I'm due to see my specialist tomorrow, and I'm gearing myself up to tell him that I have decided to stop treatment and Western medication. But he's such a nice proper old British gent that I feel like I'm letting him down, somehow.

"You're my soul mate."

If he had said that two or three years ago, I would have taken it to heart, even if I knew deep down that the words -- then and just now -- were only uttered in jest.

And anyway, I don't believe in soul mates, or the elusive mythical creature known as The One.

Dogville has been haunting my thoughts since I saw it last night. The last film that did that to me was Mulholland Drive, but Dogville is more thought-provoking and almost universal in its criticism [I think?] of basic human nature.

The movie has too many layers for me to write about it coherently, and you can probably find much better and cheemer expositions on the net. So all I shall say is: Watch it, even if it makes you squirm in your seat.

"Good, better, best
Never let it rest
Till the good is better
And the better best."

That Teamy the bee tune -- if you can sing along, you have just betrayed your age -- has been stuck in my head since Friday.

Had a date with my new girl friend from work, who will also be my companion for the 24-hour cable car ordeal in early March. More about the cable car thingy closer to the actual date, although you must surely be able to tell that it involves spending, erm, 24 hours in a, erm, cable car.

Anyway, we caught The Girl With A Pearl Earring, press previews being one of the few perks of the job. Beautiful painting-like framing of every scene with amazing attention to details, made me want to return to the National Gallery which I neglected to visit more than once. Shame on me.

As we were trotting along to the bus stop, out of nowhere, we started singing Teamy's theme song as well as that Children's Day song, commiting artrocities against the Malay language along the way.

Highly amusing, and we now feel assured that with our prowess of self-entertainment, we would be able to survive 24 hours in each other's company.

Shit happens

These are the countries I've visited, only 6 per cent of the whole world, I'm afraid. You can create your own world map too.

Now I'm sniggering to myself over the words "world map", cos that's what my lurve calls the patterns she creates when she drools in her sleep.

Five hours spent gloriously naked, lolling around on a fluffy mattress. Having every inch of skin lovingly caressed and every muscle stretched to the point of lethargy. And then floating off into dreamland. Ahhhh...bliss.

Pardon the vulgarities, but I am so blardee pissed off with work. As if it's not enough that I'm overworked and underpaid, I still get shit for the stories I churn out. Why do I even give a flying fuck?

Times like these, I am seriously tempted to test out just what would really happen if I simply turn off my mobile, don't submit my stories at all and let the fucking hole on the page go straight to hell for all I care. The eds just take it for granted that I'm going to be responsible even if I have to stay up till ungodly hours to finish my stories. And not as if these are major policy-shifting, life-changing pieces, they are just crap about expensive mobile phones and bar-top dancing, for crying out loud. There are more important things in life.

Well, after spending every night the past week working from home till late, tonight I'm going to fuck it.

The most deserted aisles of Borders are in the self-help section, I've discovered. To be more precise, it's the relationship section, which harbours books with titles such as Find A Husband After 35 Using What I Learned At Harvard Business School, Finding Mr Write, Updating: How To Find A Man Or Woman Who Once Seemed Out Of Your League, Why There Are No Good Men Left, If I’m So Wonderful Why Am I Still Single, and -- this is my personal favourite -- Stop Getting Dumped: All You Need To Know To Make Men Fall Madly In Love With You And Marry “The One” In 3 Years Or Less.

And I didn’t even have to make any of these snigger-inducing titles up.

So there I was, sheepishly checking out these books and trying to look like I was seriously interested in them. As I carted an armload of them to the counter, I imagined pitying looks from other browsers who must think I’m some sad dateless sod suffering from some sort of pre-Valentine’s Day anxiety attack.

Surrounded by $400 worth of books now, I wonder who buys them -- plenty of single women, according to research for my story -- because the advice is worthless. I am no closer to making men fall madly in love with me and proposing marriage in 3 years or less.

"Finally he spoke the three simple words that no amount of bad art or bad faith can ever quite cheapen. She repeated them, with exactly the same slight emphasis on the second word, as though she were the one to say them first."

Finished reading two books over the weekend. One was a piece of trashy writing with a title so cheesy I can't even recall it. The other was so sublime that I mentally kicked myself for putting off reading it until now. Atonement by Ian McEwan is a masterpiece that burns slowly with each voluptuous sentence. I regret racing through it instead of savouring every turn of the page.

Quadruple birthday celebrations in Bangkok


Lost luggage.


Bird's net only costs 100 baht, unlike real bird's nest.


Happy and blur.


Clearly tired.


Happy birthday to us. Forever 29!!!

Staring at the walls

No, I haven't died from an overdose of bak kwa over Chinese New Year. Nor did I catch the H5N1 virus [otherwise known as bird flu] while in Bangkok.

All I did in my long hiatus from this blog was to grow fatter and older.

One rainy day


The word "soggy" is so appropriate.


I like the word "ripples", too.


Held captive by the rain at the void deck.


I need an umbrella.


Everyone has an umbrella. Some even have a trolley.


Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Pajama Party Pix

In this job, I've had to look high and low for the following:
-- very tall men and very short men who are high-fliers [Difficulty level: 7. No one wanted to talk about how their height helped/hindered their careers.]
-- date-rape victims and potential rapists [Difficulty level: 6.5. No one wanted to use their real names.]
-- women who get drunk almost every night [Difficulty level: 5. Surprisingly not that difficult, many drunkards around.]

But my latest last-minute assignment takes the cake. I have at most three days to find three virgin couples. And they must be willing to have their pictures plastered in the national papers. I may have better luck photographing a dodo.

But if by any chance you do know of any such rare species, please please pretty please contact me. Can you sense my mounting desperation?

Update on the fame whore: The shameless man just called me to remind me that my photographer had not sent him the photos we took, which we were under no obligation to do so. I told him my photographer, who was assigned to go to Hong Kong for Anita Mui's big send off, just got back today and was not in the office.

And the fame whore had the cheek to try to pressure me by saying something like: "Oh, Hrithik is asking for them."

As if a million-rupee mega-star from Bollywood can be bothered about a lousy photo with his non-friend in Singapore. Yeah, right.

"I miz you, my lurve."

He says he wants to see me again. He says: "I miz you a lot."

I miz having someone miz me.

But the one I miz the most right now is my lurve, who has upped and moved to a new office.

Me: My lurve, how often do you cut your bangs?
My lurve: I'm going to cut next week.
Me: That wasn't my question...
My lurve: This is the first time I have bangs.
Me: That wasn't my question...
My lurve: Okay okay! You can have sex with the bartender.

I believe I have met the most shameless fame whore in my three-year career of interviewing these so-called stars.

On Monday, I went in to work to find an email waiting for me, saying something like: “My friend, who is a famous Bollywood star, is in Singapore. Would you like to interview him? Call me.” And there was a handphone number given at the bottom.

So the ed asked me to check it out. My phone conversation with the fame whore went something like this:

Me: Hi, I’m calling about your friend who is in town. Who is he?
Him: Hrithik Roshan.
Me: Sorry, who?
Him: Hrithik Roshan.
Me: Sorry, can you spell that for me please?
Him: You don’t watch Bollywood movies?
Me: Erm, no.
Him: Don’t you have any Indian colleagues?
Me: Erm, no.
Him: He’s as big as Shah Rukh Khan. You’ve heard of Shah Rukh Khan?
Me: Erm, yes. May be you can spell his name for me and I can ask someone from another department.
Him: H-R-I-T-H-I-K R-O-S-H-A-N.
Me: Can I ask which are some of the movies he’s been in?

About 10 minutes, later, I was still copying down titles of movies such as Koi Mil Gaya and Kabhi Khusi Kabhi Gham. Then I hung up and turned to the small gay boy who sits next to me and asked: “Eh, who is Hrithik Roshan? Is he big?”

“Oh my god, he’s huge,” he exclaimed. “He’s very good-looking and he can dance.”

Next, I went up to the only Indian colleague I have, and pretty much got the same response: “He is not the next big thing. He is already a big thing.”

So I went up to my ed and told her that the mystery Bollywood star in town is Hrithik Roshan. And she squealed: “Hrithik Roshan! Go interview him lah.”

I called the guy again, and acted all contrite for being so ignorant about Bollywood and asked him to arrange an interview for me please.

Him: I have two conditions for arranging for the interview. The producer of his latest movie is also here and I want you to interview him too. And I want a photo of me and Hrithik to be in the papers together.
Me: Erm, OK, can I check with my editor and let me get back to you.
Him: I just want to have my 30 seconds of fame in the newspaper.
Me: Erm, OK. Have you told any other newspapers that he is here?
Him: No, I only told you guys because you are the biggest.
Me: OK, can you not tell anyone? We want to have the exclusive.
Him: Sure, if you can get my photo in the newspaper.

So, after a lot of to and fro about the timing, date and venue of the interview -- I absolutely refused a 10pm interview in his hotel room -- we set up something for the next morning in the hotel lobby. I stressed that my photographer would be with me.

At this point in time, the newsroom was quite abuzz, not only because we were scooping The New Paper, but also because there was a possibility that he was a fraudster.

When I met his “friend” before the interview, he kept stressing to me that I should not tell Hrithik Roshan that he had alerted the papers and that I should just say I heard about it because we had friends in common. And it turned out they were not even friends, just that they both knew the producer guy.

Finally, after a lot of anxious waiting -- “Hrithik is taking a shower” -- the star arrived. And ohmigod, he was not just the handsomest Indian man I’ve ever met, he was pretty darned charming too. Good looks, I can resist, but charm! As the small gay boy needled me later: “You regret not going to his hotel room last night, right?”

As I struggled to maintain my professionalism, the hotel staff forgot all about theirs and went mad taking photos of him.

The interview went very well, he was obliging to a fault, if not exactly giving exciting answers. But just gazing into those mesmerising ice-blue eyes was enough. Those who know me well enough know by now that I seldom gush and was unimpressed even by Brad Pitt in person.

So, as I was finishing up the interview, I shook his hand and noticed that he had an extra thumb. I filed that info away to check out later, to see if he was indeed the real thing or a very convincing look-a-like.

Rushed back to the office and pounded out the story in two hours, and made sure his shameless “friend” got his wish of appearing in the papers. During the interview, he even brought his wife along to join in the photo taking, so in the end, we had gorgeous photos of Hrithik alone [which we used really big], ugloo photos of Hrithik, the produer and the fame whore together [which we used small] and useless photos of Hrithik, the fame whore and his wife [which we had no reason to use].

And after checking with his No. 1 fan in the office, who also happened to be the department’s office assistant, I ascertained that Hrithik Roshan did indeed have an extra thumb on his right hand. So, there was confirmation that he was the real McCoy and we could run the story without worries. Phew.

The story appeared on Wednesday, but as I expected, the fame whore called me up in the morning. His name was misspelt on the Internet version of the story, and he demanded a correction immediately, so he could ask all his relatives in India to log on to read it.

Then came the most shameless part: “By the way, my wife is very upset that her photo didn’t appear.”

I gave him some weak-assed excuse that there were space constraints and hung up abruptly. I hope Hrithik Roshan never returns to Singapore, because if he ever does, this fame whore is sure to bug me again. And I never want to deal with him again, even if it is to meet someone as gorgeous as Hrithik Roshan.