It has come to this. Two weeks and some at home, and what is going on is, late Sunday morning, I’m just done with a snack of goat’s milk yoghurt with honey and gem biscuits, and CC and I collapse into soft white clouds of sofa.

“I’m lazy,” she said, “so I’m going to throw all these toys at you.” She reached toward the collection of the kid’s playthings on the living room table, and, because she is kind, precised: “I’ll start with the soft ones.” A bumblebee flew across the table at me, then a monkey, a bear, a flower-print dog.

It smelled like rain outside.



At 8:49 Thursday night I snuck a peek at Tym’s watch and said, “Oh, we have overstayed our parking by almost an hour.” It is easy to do, you see, when you have CC and Tym and Terz and a nasi padang feast in front of you.

Thursday night on Liang Seah Street was: sitting outside on the five-foot way, yellow rice and pink iced bandungs all around, while the rattan fans spun above our heads; and then, just down the block, Ah Chew’s Desserts for bowls of black sesame cream and pulot hitam, and discussions of noodles.

There is a noodle hierarchy, you may say you like them all equally as if they are your children, but everyone knows the truth is, one noodle is better than the others. Me, I like mee poh, followed by mee sua. I also like the classic yellow Hokkien mee noodle, and I will say this, unabashed, and in writing, even though Tym is terribly disparaging of it. Also, tang hoon, which has been working its way up the ranks over the years, gets a special mention for its thin strands of slippery glassiness, and for its transparent, crystal-ball aspect of mystery noodle.

Later, Terz was explaining the workings of KTV bars, the seductions of KTV hostesses. “They come over and whisper in your ear,” he said. “What do you mean, ‘They whisper’?” I said, because I am naïve to the shadows of Singapore nightlife—the China girls and Geylang trannie prostitutes. “What do they whisper? Like, ‘What’s your favorite noodle?’”

Oh, but that was a tasty night, well worth the ten-dollar parking violation ticket we found later on the windscreen, timed 8:49.



And I remember now that I keep forgetting to blog about waking up at seven two Sundays ago for a porridge breakfast. Seven on a Sunday morning, now that is dedication to porridge.

Sunday morning in Tiong Bahru, early-like, there is fish porridge, hot and salty, and pork porridge, also good, but watch out for the livery bits.



And the porridge was fine, but the murtabak, well, that was somethin’ special.

Too early on a Sunday morning, the murtabak uncle hasn’t prepared the mutton yet, but offers the sardine with a smile. The boy at the stove slaps the dough onto the counter and fries it up on the spot.



Kopis and tehs for the table, while, just beyond the low blocks of HDB flats, the sun is rising.