WAK a great experience

When I first visited Kuching, Sarawak some five years ago, I was one VIP.

The moment I touched down, I was ushered by officials from the tourism board for a welcome reception -- without even needing to go through immigration to have my passport stamped.

That's one of the perks as a magazine journo.

Five years later, I again visited Kuching, Sarawak, and while I had to go through customs for the first time, I realise I was still one VIP, thanks to the hospitality of my very good friend and his family.

Here's a pictorial summary of some of my best memories of the trip.

Let's allow my iPhone-snapped pictures to do most of the talking, shall we?

ADD KOLO TO MY LIFE: It's plain. It's bare. It's Sarawak kolo mee. But that's exactly what's attractive about the local noodles. Despite being quite colourless, the springy noodles draw power from resident ingredients like fragrant sesame oil, soy sauce, char siew gravy, shallots and vinegar. The result? Uncle, one more bowl can?

GRAVY SITUATIONS: I've tried Sarawak Laksa from many stalls in Kuching (as well as in Singapore) but the best I've had is still home made, by a friend's mom. Yet, I'm happy to sample a variety in my trip. I can certainly get used to the spicy-sour tinge of the gravy and nibbling whatever shrimp and spice debris my spoon can scoop up.

KEEP PALM AND CARRY ON: Without sounding like an authority from the Sarawak Tourism Board, the Teh C Peng Special is unique to Sarawak (as far as I know), and is a must-try.  Like the familiar Teh C (tea with evaporated milk and sugar) which we know, this version contains palm sugar, or gula Melaka. It is indeed weight gain in a cup, but shelve those worries for later. Order this drink and sip intermittently with a piping bowl of hot Sarawak Laksa to a) wash the spiciness from your tongue and b) enjoy the fragrant sweetness of the tea courtesy of the palm sugar.

STEM OF APPROVAL: Very yummy, this curry cooked with the stem of coconut. Though the stem doesn't absorb the curry, I like it that it gives the dish an added crunchy texture.

FERN LOVING: One of Sarawak's most common local vegetables is midin, a fern-like crop that's usually cooked with sambal and doesn't have a distinct taste except for its crunchy and slightly sappy texture.

MARKET VALUE: Fresh fruits, vegetables and fish from the coastal village of Lundu (a district northwest of Kuching) are on sale. It's not uncommon for Kuching locals looking for cheap and fresh deals to drive up to the source of these produce to get good bargains.

WORM UP TO THIS COLD DISH: It definitely takes a lot - an awful lot - to get used to the idea of chomping on these obese sago worms. We chanced upon them at a local market and five ringgit later, the creepy crawlies were on their way to the basin, then the sizzling pan, and finally, my stomach. The taste test: Despite being fried to death, the worms remain pulpy and soft - not unlike a huge pimple that's ripe with pus. As unpalatable as it sounds, the worms burst with one hearty bite, squirting rich, savoury flavours in all directions. Contain the juices, appreciate the tastes, swallow.

CREAM OF THE CROP: T'is the season to be jolly with durian. The crop of local Sarawak durian may not be branded pedigree but it's so creamy and smooth it made me dizzy with bliss with every mouthful.

ALL ICE ON KANTONG: One mission of a friend who grew up in Sarawak is to locate, during this trip, his favourite childhood snack -  the ice Kantong, not unlike Singapore's ice ball of the yesteryears. In the Kuching version, it's styled as a popsicle drenched in Sarsi syrup.

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE: Actually, the hills are sleeping, according to the local myth. The Santubong hill resembles the head of a beautiful snoozing guardian spirit called Santubong. Imagine the highest point of the hill to be a nose. The rest of the features should fall in place easily to form the image of a face. According to legend, Santubong is one of two heavenly sisters that had been turned into a hill for fighting each other over a man. And though people do trek Santubong, locals apparently avoid going there - for respect of its pristine state or fear of the wrath of the guardian spirit, I would never know.

GOOD TIDINGS: This coastal village in Bantul sees high tide about twice a month. Watch how tides of the South China Sea bring water to the village which in turn brings pure, simple happiness to its dwellers.

MINE YOUR OWN BUSINESS: The Tasik Biru (or blue lake) in Bau used to be a quarry where gold mining was done. Spring water started filling up the quarry after too deep a digging. Some 50 years later, the entire space transformed into this lake. But while it appears beautiful on the surface, what's below is mildly poisonous, what with the remaining traces of arsenic from previous mining activities.

LAKE A BREAK: A natural picnic spot for many families is Matang, where kids - or any sporting adults - can frolic in the still lake, or simply sit by a pile of rocks to enjoy jacuzzi constructed with the flush of the flowing stream, courtesy of Mother Nature.

Celebrity kiss and tell

So I haven't slept with any TVB, MediaCorp or Hollywood stars.

But I think I can still tell a bit.

In my previous life as an entertainment writer for a magazine, I had done several things with celebrities -- including sharing a slice of cake with Hong Kong actress Charmaine Sheh, making singer Wakin Chau guffaw at some lame joke, and annoying the hell out of balladeer Jeff Chang by forcing him to tell me which male celebrity he'd like to French kiss.

In tonight's post, I won't be making any point (that's effectively saying all my previous posts had very good points that would value-add humanity and anyone who's read any of my posts will walk away with karmic points trailing him or her).

Instead, I'm just gonna recall some of the celebrities I'd met and spoken to, and pen some afterthoughts about them.

And in my usual dramatic fashion to kick start the list.... Celebrity Kiss and Tell stand by.... in five... four... three... two....

1. Taufik Batisah 
The year was 2005, just months after mister doe-eyed won the first Singapore Idol. Our meeting was unceremonious. No proper seats for the one-on-one. Unglam even. Taufik was performing at some CC (filled with makcik fans who screamed at his appearance, I kid you not). We met backstage. He looked tired. And with him was an entourage of more makciks (whom I assume are his relatives), who had accompanied him on the stint and doubled up that outing as a picnic party, for they had brought their mats and epok epok along. They offered me food like I was part of the family. The feeling was good. I was no longer interested in listening to the newly-minted idol. All I really cared about was what filling the epok epok had, and if Taufik's relatives would be so kind as to make me some coffee along with the yummy offerings. Sorry Taufik. Epok epok one, Taufik Batisah zero.

2. Ekin Cheng
I was warned quite sternly by Ekin's manager. Do NOT ask him anything about his love life. Any questions about Ekin's current girlfriend Yo Yo Mung would NOT be entertained. To idiotic journalists like me, that means, Wai Kit, ASK ahead. And so, I risked being parang-slashed by Ekin -- best known for his role as a charismatic gangster in Young And Dangerous circa 1990s  -- by asking him about Yo Yo Mung. Instead of flipping the table to reveal some hidden parang, Ekin gave me a weak smile, nodded, and said, "okay, just for you". Whoa, just for me? Dude, you made it to my top 10 favourite male artistes that very day.

3. Twins
Cutesy and polite onscreen, these two lovable Hong Kong singers are not that lovable off stage. And they're even worse backstage. Perhaps, it was because journos from Singapore, Hong Kong and Taiwan were jostling to get the girls' attention during a commercial break of some singing programme. Or perhaps, I looked like one of their ex-boyfriends. I don't know. They were slightly annoyed, and gave me mostly half-hearted answers. At one point, I swear one of them even pouted and asked, are you all done? Hell yeah. I'm done with that badass attitude, thank you ma'am.

4. Joe Ma
This fella picked up a knife and started mindlessly fiddling away with it the moment I sat opposite him for a five-minute one-on-one at a restaurant of the hotel he was staying. Two minutes into my interview, Joe -- whom I believe is many aunties' favourite TVB Hong Kong serial hero -- had no intention of putting down that knife. Even as I exhausted all my PR charm and patience on him, Mr Joe here simply wasn't interested in basic courtesy of looking one in his eyes. By the third minute, he had slouched so lazily I thought someone had blowpiped sleep darts at him from behind. Were my questions boring him? Should I be asking him the size of his penis just to jolt him up? By the fifth minute, he seemed all bright and fresh -- because the next journalist came with her camera crew. And just like that, Joe Ma's TV instincts kicked in, becoming all smiley and charming. Someone fucking give that fella a Best Actor Award already.

5. Jackie Chan
The bigger the star, the more diva he is? Not with this international celebrity. Although I was among many other reporters at the press conference, Jackie Chan the kungfu master is also quite the PR master. When responding to my question, he looked right at me, quite sincerely I must add, and made me feel as if all other reporters had faded in the background. And that fella smiles as if he's forgotten he's a super star.So earnest, this one is by far the top celeb in the Humble Stars list that exists only in my head.

6.  Charmaine Sheh
Oh, my, god. I'm meeting Snow White. Or at least, I'd cast her as Snow White if ever I become a TVB director. (I'll cast Joe Ma -- number 4 -- as her step mother. Yes, I want that bitch to drag.) It was tea time, and the buffet line was filled with pastries, cakes and whatnot. "Sorry I haven't eaten. I hope you don't mind if I eat as you interview?" she asks in Cantonese. And before I could reply, she says, "share, share. ok?" It is hard not to love this svelte actress, whose dramas I loved watching. But at that point, I was more interested in watching her eat. It's not every day you see idols stuffing their faces in front of journos. And because I was that close to her, I could see that, behind the foundation and make up, there were no wrinkles (accurate as at years ago when I saw her). As I walked away that day, the only image I have of Charmaine were her cakes and very classy French manicure.

7. Wakin Chau
I was determined to unmask that goofy face. There's NO way anyone can be so happy. One of the first things I asked the amiable singer was, why the hell are you always so happy, and always grinning like a goon? But he met my answers with even more grinning. It's one thing to see the singer laughing heartily on TV, and another, to see that up close. The difference, you can feel that Wakin's chortle is heartfelt. Don't ask me why. He warms up to people very easily and laughs readily at almost anything. So the next time you bump into Wakin -- however big that likelihood is -- tell him a lame joke. He'll make you feel like the most humorous person in town.

8. Jeff Chang
Here's the game plan, I told my colleague who writes for her Chinese entertainment columns. We're going to corner Jeff Chang and make him come out to us during the interview. We'll ask him innocuous questions in the first half of the interview, and just like how assassins casually walk up to their targets at bar counters and swiftly snap their necks from behind, we're gonna assault the Taiwanese balladeer with a volley of questions involving possible romance with men. The verdict? We did ask him -- point blank. Right after one question about his plans for his next album, we asked him -- as if it were the most natural thing to do -- "So, are you gay?" I heard a stifled choke from one of his minders. But the singer was so sweet and earnest that when my colleague and I each wrote our stories, we never used any of his answers that we had so cruelly set up for him.

Virgin no more

It's official.

I lost my virginity some two weeks ago.

Sure, it was quite painful, but it was good while it lasted.

Panting and sweating and performing the karmasutra alongside me were not one, not two, but -- wait, let me count mentally -- nine hot women.

And the feeling was good. 

I've never in my 34 human years on this earth, done yoga.

While I'm not bent on sticking to the exercise, I'm glad I did it. Bent on -- ha ha. Geddit?

Firstly, it was the only way I could spend time with two of my favourite colleagues -- who are also dear friends -- outside of work.

Secondly, yoga has taught me quite a few things, chief of which is, I can never quit my job and run away to join the circus as an acrobat. No circus master would risk taking in an acrobat who cannot touch his toes without bending his knee.

Indeed, yoga has humbled me.

I'd never imagine that one hour of pretending my limbs are made of plasticine can churn out the same amount of ache that's akin to post-marathon pain.

And mind you -- I was aching in all the places I never knew could ache.

One of the reasons I hadn't tried out yoga was, I felt there wasn't a need to.

Why waste time twisting limbs for an hour, when I can pound 12km -- or swim 3,000m -- within those 60 minutes?

Heck, I'd work out more body parts and probably burn even more calories.

Then, it dawned on me that yoga can help me achieve one thing strenuous sports cannot.

Peace of mind.

There is no room for thought of any sort with yoga.

Clear your mind.... concentrate on your breathing.... 


These are some things I won't consciously do when running or swimming.

In fact, those would be some of the best times to keep thinking through problems, or planning work ahead of time.

Therein lies the beauty of yoga.

It gave me a good workout (trust me, I ached like a battered bitch the next day) and at the same time, it helped me rest my mind.

Yes. It gave me so much zen such that, it didn't even occur to me to make deliberate farting sounds when, towards the end of the class, the yoga instructor told everyone in her soporifically hypnotic voice to "breathe.... allow your body to rest totally...."

Yes. I was that obedient.

With stress giving me one more reason to work out, yoga will definitely be something I'll consider.

I think I can live and last with yoga.

Until I cannot suppress the urge to let go farting noises while everyone is hard at concentration, that is.

Expressing Normalcy

I recently mentioned to some friends that I am actually Normal.

Most of them reacted in shock - like I had opened up a can of worms about my life.

Some gasped so dramatically, their mouths can fit a can of coke. Others widened their eyes so much, they look like swollen testicles.

Okay, I exaggerate, but it's true most of them are quite surprised that I had been in the Normal Academic stream in secondary school.

One bimbo I met once remarked, "Wow, you don't look like you're from Normal Acad!"

Of course lah, bodoh. You think MOE goes around stamping the words "Normal Academic" on our cheeks like we are NDP participants issit?

I had first wanted to blog about my being in the Normal Academic stream, when PM Lee cast the spotlight on NA students during his National Day Rally.

But in keeping with my Normal Academic pace (people take four years to do 'O' Levels, these people take five!), I thought that my delayed post on this topic would be quite timely.

And in keeping with my Normal Academic spirit, it's better late than never.

So here it is.

It's very fun being in the NA stream - I kid you not.

Then again, it's my very fun-loving nature that led me to the five-year secondary school path.

And I don't regret having all the fun in my six years in Mei Chin Primary School.

In fact, I've learnt to be very proud of my PSLE score.

During one conversation with my work mates, the topic of PSLE scores came up.

"Mine was 253," one said.

"Wah, you so clever! My friends laugh at me when I tell them mine is 232," another quipped.

"Eh, what the hell. Mine was 197 leh,"  I added with authority.

The awkward silence lasted only 5 seconds before we all guffawed.

While it can be very funny to think about it now -- being in the NA stream can be tough on morales.

As you'd have imagined, my classmates and I had had our fair share of being compared to.

Sure, we get that all the time -- from our parents' friends, from relatives, from neighbours.

But what's worse is when the comparison stems from the school environment.

I will NEVER forget how one teacher, Mr Q -- who had NEVER taught us before nor taken the time to know us -- walked into our class to relieve another teacher, and told us in our faces how worthless we were.

And what did we do wrong? Oh, we did not stand up immediately to greet him when he walked into our classroom.

His words -- as far as my memory serves me -- went along this line:

"What's wrong with you? When I visited ACS, the boys all shot up immediately when I walked into their class. And they don't even know me!"

My immediate retort to Mr Q was, "then you go and teach there lor, whyduncha?

Of course, that was a response in my head -- which I regret not having verbalised there and then.

My point is, Normal Academic students will be subject, no, subjected to comparison.

And they will come from all sources -- schoolmates, teachers, parents, neighbours, and even bimbos who reaffirm that you don't look like an NA student.

The government has started to eradicate this by tweaking the system.

It will take, and I borrow the much-dreaded government terms, a paradigm shift, a strategic shift, a whatever shift -- you get the idea -- to really get people to stop giving the poor NA, NT, not-top-students so much stress from comparison.

I will say this -- the comparisons and judgement will take a very, very, very long time before they are no longer an issue. Yes, way longer than the five years to take the 'O' Levels, for sure.

But I'm also very confident that the stigma of being in NA WILL change.

In fact, I'm very confident the stigma of being anything that's deemed less worthy by society WILL change.

But it will start small.

Very small.

It will start with an individual effort -- which should come from the NA student himself or herself.

Once you make the individual effort to overcome whatever comparisons, stereotypes, taunts, sarcasm made against you, you're on your way to helping erode the stigma of being NA students.

If you can be confident about yourself, if you can block out negative comments, you'll be able to focus on working hard to the best of your abilities. 

Things will improve.

We may be slower, but we'll get there. Just you see.

Dang the dengue

I did not see it coming.

It could have leapt at me from the longkang and hung on to my leg hair, with its dear life. Or it could have flown right at me like a missile from the park.

However it attacked, it did so noiselessly.

Slightly more than a week ago, I fell victim to the darn aedes mozzie.

Looking back, it was such an unjust attack. I did nothing to provoke the bloody mozzie. And I was certain I didn’t go around offering my blood to anyone or anything, like I was bloody Bella Swan.

Fine, I may have played a part in trying to destroy your family lineage, but why take offence? Everyone’s doing it, it’s trendy.

Why attack me, instead of my friend DC, who’s as fair as a char siew bun next to me? What’s wrong with you? You’d rather make a meal out of skin and bones? You don’t like the Marshmellow Man?

I hope you had diarrhoea or died of food poisoning shortly after you bit me.

Of course, I wouldn’t know for sure.

What I did know was, you zapped the life out of me.

Somewhere in Yishun, you must be feeling great, having sucked the fitness, stamina and agility out of me. I hope the energy made you so high you crashed into a wall.

As for me, I was left debilitated by dengue.

For five days, I was enveloped in heat – and not in a good way either.

My temperature spiked, hovering around 39.2 degree Celsius. Even showering with my heater seemed cooling, I kid you not.

My spine felt strained. My thighs ached. My head throbbed. And every little movement I made hurt.

Even lying in bed – and not doing anything – was no easy task. My bones constantly radiated with pain even though I lay there and pretended to be a bolster.

Fortunately, my platelet count didn’t plunge below 60 – a threshold that would warrant for me to be warded.

It went from 200 to 180, and then to 190, signs which my doctors saw as encouraging.

When rashes set in on both my forearms on Day Three, my arms looked like they belonged to a part of an eczema poster.

But I must say I made good progress.

By Day Five, fever broke, and all I felt was lethargy – which my doctor said will go away only after three weeks.

Good grief.

That means, I would not be allowed to continue training for my Half Ironman Race in August – an event I had been looking forward to since the end of May.

Yes, all my weeks of hard work – clocking swim, run and bike mileage, and doing grueling bricks involving swim-runs and bike-runs – have all gone down the drain, no thanks to one bloody aedes mozzie.

But the good thing is, I didn’t die from dengue.

I may feel exhausted all the way till National Day – and I’ll probably pant every time I take the stairs, but I am determined to shed this lethargy soon.

One week’s down-time is really enough.

I’m determined to build my energy from scratch.

The rest is history.

The biggest weener

I have a tiny penis.

I will go all out -- even if it means lying through my teeth as above -- just as long as I can surprise, shock, and shut the mouths of competitive, egoistic people around me.

Of course, it would be very unsettling if I had said the opposite, and caused those egoistic people to open their mouths wide.

Thing is, I'd rather concede defeat right from the start, than to compete and compare myself with smarty pants.

It's a very draining exercise to defend yourself or to put smarty pants in place, so this is one technique I always use.

And it works.

I can say this with authority since I had been subjected to such comparisons at various points in my life.

As a child, I had loud, distant relatives whose sole mission in their lives is to trumpet their kids' achievements.

But the rascal in me didn't care one bit, since playing catching with my childhood friend Mamat was more interesting than feeling small about myself.

Things turned out differently when I went on to primary school, though.

That's when I had some semblance of intellect and emotion, enough to react when being compared.

When I was in Primary Three, I did well enough during streaming to be banded in the school's top class for the next level.

But with all the catching I was playing with Mamat around our estate, I had no energy left to catch up in the classroom.

So my very thoughtful form teacher, Ms Chua, had painstakingly reminded me of my stupidity at every opportunity.

See? Weijie, you failed your maths again. See? You scored the lowest for English. See? Why are you even in this class?

Apart from making me feel like toenail dirt, there was not one thing she did to help me improve -- like, say, making me stay back to do extra work. Maybe she thought a bit of taunting and comparing me to my classmates would make me tougher.

Passionate woman, that one.

And as we progress in life, the comparisons don't stop.

Fitness level, choice of university, choice of faculty, choice of CCA, whatever.

It gets even worse when we start work.

In fact, the comparisons become more calculated and disguised.

For years, I had to defend myself for choosing a profession that pays me just enough to have three meals a day.

While I do have friends who are genuinely supportive but are concerned about my career, I also have those who'd take the opportunity to belittle me.

Aiyoh, how come you earn so little?!
With a pay like that, you might as well not have studied so hard!

My usual response would be to take a deep breath, and patiently explain to the smarty pants in question, that I love what I do and monetary rewards is secondary.

Most of the time, the comparisons are not designed to hurt me, but to massage the egos of the insecure.

Perhaps, my non-achievements -- coupled with my instinctive response to defend myself -- make me a good springboard for them to launch into their topics.

Oh, you haven't been promoted yet ah? I just got mine last week. (Good for you lor, Senior Smarty Pants).

The other day, my staff made me so angry. What about you? How many staff do you have working under you? (I have one whole department working under me -- on the first floor).

I did not make these examples up, and there are way too many of such to list.

To be honest, I dislike being compared to my peers, but more importantly, I dislike being a platform for smaty pants to show off.

I also realise that the more I explain to smarty pants why I can't afford to buy a condo, or not scaling the corporate ladder, or not embarking on post-graduate studies, the more I massage their swelling egos.

But to shut the hell up and not respond would be rather uncharacteristic of me.

So after a while, I join them in belittling myself until there's no kick for them.

And smarty pants being smarty pants, they'll be smart enough to move on from you because they know they can no longer prompt any emotion out of you.

So if you're constantly the subject of comparison of insecure smarty pants, fret not.

Toss those pants aside and say you have a tiny penis.

At the end of the day, the biggest winner is the fella who doesn't need to have a big ego.

The Ex Factor

Not too long ago, I met up with the ex, whom I hadn't seen in quite a while.

She's still the same person I remember her as -- apart from longer hair, she still looks the same. She's still talking way too rapidly and gossips too much for her own good.

I had the best four years with her and I realise that day just how much I miss this witty and endearingly bitchy woman.

Yet, one thing is very certain: Though I miss the ex-boss, I'm never ever going to work for her again.

Sure, she's never once raised her hand to ketok my head and berate me in the office, while a concerned colleague is filming away.

In fact, she's never raised her voice -- or even an eyebrow -- at me when I was her subordinate.

The only thing that was ever raised, in my four years with her, was my pathetic salary.

But I'm sure I will never want to go back and work for her, though ironically, it was the workplace that had built this very love, respect, and friendship with her.

Not that the ex had asked me to join her again, but if she had, I would turn her down in one minute, the way I would say no to earnest salesmen on the street asking me for "just one minute".

I firmly believe that colleagues can become friends and I don't think friends can become colleagues -- which is the direction the ex-boss and I have taken.

The next few days, I started thinking about all my other ex-es.

I've had my fair share of working with, and for various ex-bosses, given that I had an early taste of working life, selling bed sheets and pillow cases at Takashimaya when I was 15.

These ex-es come in all shapes and sizes and hail from all over the place -- some of them, I believe to this day, had either come from the wilderness or had managed to smuggle their way out of hell.

While I'm thankful I hadn't worked for bosses who made me feel like I was a slave -- oh, wait, I take that back. I almost forgot about Alvin Bong (surnames have been changed just for the heck of it).

I mean, while I haven't had abusive bosses, I have encountered very nasty ones.

Yet, I'm thankful for such ex-es.

Every time I leave one nasty boss, I take along with me what little goodness they have left in them.

One particular egoistic boss reminded me how vital it was to be humble.

Another nasty bitch brought out patience previously unknown to me, through her mean, manipulative management style.

And then there was that one particular fella who thought he was so damn funny and made me a joke target at meetings, only to realise he was training me to be sharper and quicker with repartees.

And so on, and so forth.

And the miraculous thing is, when I think back of these nasty ex-bosses, I no longer detest them, though I once had.

I tend to forget just how mean they once were.

Instead, I feel a sense of zen triumph that I had survived their nasty antics.

I guess this is an in-built Defence System in male species - we can easily let go.

As I pen this, I hope that those who are still suffering under nasty bosses, will learn to manage their situations.

Find a way that can turn your plight into something that works for you.

And hopefully, when it's time to leave that nasty boss of yours, you will take with you whatever goodness that's left in that idiot, and leave him to be consumed by his own negative energy.

My. Look who's the nasty one.

Our jobs are at stake

God damn it, but it's true - our jobs are at stake.

But no, it's not because hordes of foreigners are arriving by bus, being handed out new IDs, and taking over our jobs.

On the contrary, it's a select group of our countrymen who might jeopardise our jobs. Yes. Your job. My job.

You see, some of us tend to have an I-can-do-better mentality when it comes to commenting on other people's jobs.

For instance, everyone has something to say about teachers.

Aiyoh. How come the teacher never make time for remedial lesson? 
Aiyoh. How come the teacher make you go for remedial lesson when you're already so loaded with homework? 
Aiyoh. How come the teacher never discipline my kid?
What sort of teacher are you? I should really ask the school to transfer my kid to another class.

Fair enough, teaching is a profession that affects our children. So stakeholders - be they parents, guardians, aunties and uncles sitting idly at HDB void decks or the fella who sells kachang putih at Cathay -- have a right to comment and criticise teachers.

So, maybe let's move on to chefs.

Aiyoh. How come the soup is cold one?
Aiyoh. You call this medium rare?
Aiyoh. The food like that also you dare to sell? I can cook better lor.

Fair enough, F&B is a profession that affects our health. So stakeholders, well, you get the idea.

And so on, and so forth.


Not surprisingly, I've read a fair share of attacks on my profession.

I'm not getting defensive -- yet.

But I am getting on the offensive.

Very often, it's easy for us to exist in our comfort zone and make comments about other people's jobs -- without thinking how difficult it is for those who're slogging away.

Aiyoh. So slow lah this news company. 
Aiyoh. How come their studio guests talk so much rubbish one?
Aiyoh. Why that presenter's hair looks like chewed carpet? 

It's not nice to hear disparaging things about our profession. Or the profession of anyone, for that matter.

Just because waiters, teachers, reporters, chefs, drivers, hairstylists make their job seem easy doesn't always mean it really is.

And even if you really can do a better job, so what? Go and do their job lah, why don't you?

We don't expect pats on the back when the job's well done.

But if something -- anything -- crops up while we're on the job, we get a pat -- on the cheek.

And it stings. 

I'm definitely happy with justifiable comments especially if they are constructive and come with suggestions on how we can improve.

But if it's plain criticism stemmed from a sense of superiority, then I think it's not nice.

Perhaps, the next time we are on the verge of criticising other people's work, we should really ask ourselves if we are THAT good at our own job first.

All rights reservist

I think I'm in love.

No, that's not exactly a good way of putting it.

I'm having an affair, and I think I'm starting to fall in love with the third party.

Ah, that's more like it.

Not too long ago, I was called up for reservist.  And life has changed slightly.

Let's back up a bit.

I ORD-ed some 10 years ago, and when I returned to Singapore after my studies, I had enthusiastically written to the relevant departments, requesting to kick-start my reservist cycle.

Nobody replied me.

So I sent another email about a year later. And another. And another.

Finally, I got some reply that were along the lines of, Oh, yeah, we're on it. Don't worry. You'll be recalled soon. 

That was in 2005.

I'd since given up on hoping to be recalled - until I got my first recall order early this year.

With my NS peers advancing into their fourth or fifth cycle of reservist, I felt left out.

For a while, I felt as if I were an ignored audience member in an interactive magic show.

You know, there'd always be that one idiot who'd wave his hand eagerly in the hope of going on stage to be locked in a cabinet, and have swords inserted into various parts of his body, but whom the magician would ignore because he came across as weird?  I mean, which magician would risk having some overly-eager creepy dude volunteer on his stage right?

Yeah, that creepy dude would be me.

I get all sorts of suggestions from friends, for my not being recalled -- the top of which: This fella is so eager to start reservist. Something must be wrong. Better not recall him. 

Very often, friends rebuke me for my being overzealous. 

Why on earth do you want to volunteer to start reservist? You mad issit? If they don't call you, good lah! I want to escape also cannot. You hate your day job that much issit?

To set the record straight, no, I do not hate my job such that I want to find an escape.

But after my recent reservist, really, I can't say with 100 per cent conviction.

You see, while I was in the K-9 Unit in NS, I performed very different policing duties.

But during my first-ever reservist cycle, I was posted to a police centre where I had, for the very first time in my life, performed active policing roles.

While I'm mindful to not break any Official Secrets Act vow which I took, it's safe to say that my three-week stint with the force was life-changing.

Not only did it make me feel that the work of a police officer is meaningful, it also made me re-think my life.

Can I see myself as a police officer, pro-actively preventing crime, reaching out to help the community, and chasing thieves around the island?

I think I can.

Which is why I feel as if I'm cheating on my marriage to journalism.

All my life, my adult life.... I had planned and worked my way to fulfil my ambition to be a journalist.

I'm no Pulitzer-winning journo yet, but I'm very grateful I had landed my dream job in my current company. And between chasing deadlines and interviews and chasing thieves, erm, I think the former is more doable for me.

So, why the hell am I flirting with the idea of trading in my pen, note pad and microphone, for a point-three-eight, a set of handcuffs and the T-baton?

It is distracting and I find it worrying that a third-party has now come into the marriage.

And so, the journalist in me must contextualise the situation.

Over the last few weeks, I've concluded that, my reservist cycle is some holiday fling.

Hey honey, I gotta go on this trip. It's very important. I'll be back. Don't miss me. I love you.

And off I went for the holiday.

I had a great time there, I became fast friends with those I worked with, and I most certainly began to love the novelty of all the experiences that came rushing to me.

And soon, I begin to form hopes of developing this fling into a legitimate relationship.

But how to, when I've got my journalism marriage waiting for me back home?

This holiday doesn't last. It has to come to an end. And when it does, there is packing to be done, goodbyes to be said.

Back home, there are deadlines to be chased, words to be knocked out, interviews to be done. So much is waiting for me. How can I abandon those for you, my fling?

And because the practical side of me knows that a fling is a fling, it makes the yearning for a real relationship with the fling to develop, all the more morbidly romantic.

Perhaps, I'm one of those you-never-know-until-you've-tried types?

Then again, I've never been unsure of what I want in life. So how can this be?

In the end, I let the head take over the heart.

Once upon a time, the heart fell in love with journalism.

A relationship was soon formed. And with the passing of the honeymoon period came the harsh realities faced in that marriage: Long hours, stressful times of rushing a story minutes before the bulletin airs, low pay....

Soon, the heart forgot how that spark -- that raw sense of drive -- felt like, because, as with all relationships, the spark can dwindle.

So that's when the head has to take over: When I fell in love with journalism, I fell in love with the good and bad of it.

Just because the spark has dwindled 10 years on, just because there was a convenient distraction that came in my life (which I happened to take quite well to), there is no reason to cheat on the marriage.

And so, with those thoughts sorted out days before I returned to the marriage, I felt like I had renewed my vows to journalism.

And like a sweet spouse, journalism welcomed me back with open arms, the day I stepped back into the newsroom.