Archive for June, 2015

Isn't the plural for hippopotamus hippopotami?

The combination of Kurkov and Placebo is a little unsettling.

I have been obsessed with Kurkov since Death And The Penguin.

Actually, I am just obsessed with Slavic literature. And Russian composers. I read my slavic novels with my Russian music and try to understand the psyche of Russians, their limitless capacity for suffering. Maybe I should learn Russian next year just to complete the whole cycle.

Some stories have a beginning but no end.

I'm not in love, so don't forget it
It's just a silly phase I'm going through

I did something horrid today. I flirted with someone to badger a settlement out of him. It worked though so all was not in vain. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

All kinds of randomness-

Me: Shit I didn't know you could speak Mandarin this well!
D: Only when angry enough.
Singh: 有眼不实泰山!
Me: WTF. Incidentally, P's Chinese name is 泰山!
P: Which is also apparently the God of the 7th level of hell.
Me: WTF.

Me: Can this day get any worse?
He: If we get food poisoning.

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Getting up for a fight –

I just wrote these subs for a contested application (not even mine!) tomorrow morning.

"Don't lose them I will kill you."

I love my Pelikan even though it has serious feedback. Someone once told me that it sounded like I was chiselling words as I scribbled notes on my attendance sheet in a pre-trial conference. I quite like that description. It makes what I have written sound a little bit more important.

I still get up for hearings the old fashioned way – with a pen and many many sheets of paper. There's something cathartic, something joyful, something liberating about putting pen to paper and watching (and quite literally so in my case) the ink flow.

In my late teens / early twenties, I went everywhere with a notebook. I scribbled random thoughts and bits of rhyme. I was never alone as long as I had my words with me. From those years, I have many filled notebooks of thoughts and feelings and poetry.

For a moment then I couldn't tell which was more important to me: my words or my music.

Associate D sat across from me in my office this morning while I read his draft and while Rach 2 played on my computer. It was a small magic moment in the middle of the craziness that is today.

I tried to feel both the words and the music resonate in my gut together. It didn't sound right. I made a judgement call. My suspicions turned out to be founded.

I still have a plain Muji notebook sitting on my work desk. Occasionally when I am knotted in emotions, I write in it to work out the kinks, to think straight again. T used to laugh about it and refer to it with a rather derogatory "Oh, the book of FEELINGS."

I've always wondered. Is having feelings in my line of work a sin? Is having feelings as an adult and having the need to work those out once in a while a sin?

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My kids are the only ones appropriately dressed for the minions dance workshop.

I just found out that Mr Muscle Mold&Mildew cleaner and a scouring pad cleans white school shoes better than any sneaker shampoo Bata sells you.

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Porridge making in progress.

Made too much porridge so had it for both lunch and dinner. The boys came over for D&D all afternoon. Attended a wake for a colleague's father. Now headed to the supermarket for stuff we missed yesterday.

When I was 8 years old, my mother inexplicably signed me up for this Lantern Festival party organised by the Community Centre. Just me. Not my sisters. It involved going for a walk around the estate with my lantern, a lion dance performance, and snacks.

So on the evening it was to happen, I thought that my mother would be walking with me. But my mother had other ideas. She brought me to the meeting point, went up to this teenage girl (whom I guess she thought looked like a nice girl) and got the girl to agree to watch after me, then she left and went home.

So there I was, a reluctant participant of the festivities, stuck with a random teenage girl I didn't know.

Shortly after my mother left, teenage girl's ah beng boyfriend showed up together with a bunch of his friends. So I ended up doing the lantern walk thing trailing behind this group of ah lians and ah bengs who intermittently looked back to check if I was still following.

It was damn weird, even by my 8-year-old standards.

I got home in one piece that night. The group of them were nice enough to escort me all the way to the bottom of my apartment block.

I told my mother it all went okay, showed her the goodie bag containing one moon cake and some snacks, then went to bed completely weirded out.

Till this day, when I remember the incident, I still ask: What the hell was my mother thinking??!!??

Then again, I also ask myself what the hell I was thinking when I got on a camel with a strange Egyptian man and rode out into the dessert for 2 hours while he badgered me to kiss him.

Makes me wonder if I got that bit of randomness from my mother.

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My Aimee Chaton is 15. Does this mean she's in her 70s? Is that why she is so grumpy and weird?


If you wanna try the yummy food I had last night, Casse-Croûte's online store is now open at http://www.cassecroute.com.sg! My best friend Rebecca does the delivery 😀

Guess the superheroes 1

Guess the superheroes 2

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My daughter is at work with me today to complete her "A day at work with Mummy" holiday worksheets.

She gave up reading a file after 5 minutes and has been drawing and doing her own things since.

Oh well.

At Casse-Croûte!

Ham and cold sausage!

Pig Head Terrine!

All the goodies!


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If someone said to you:
"Have you heard about The Human Centipede? No? It's gross. Don't google it."

What would you do?

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* Inspired by stories shared by @kimberlycun and @jingthepianist *

On relaionships with mothers –

When I was in confinement after having my daughter in an emergency C-section, my mother one day randomly told me that she was offered a C-section when the doctors realised that I was in breach position. She remembered the ugly scar on my paternal grandmother's tummy and decided immediately against a C-section.

As a result, when they finally got my head out, I was all blue in the face. Because this was back in ye old days where there are no mobile phones, the hospital called the police to go find my dad in case I died.

I grew up a sickly child and for many years, everyone thought and treated me like I was stupid because no one is quite sure I didn't have any brain damage from being oxygen deprived at birth.

In short, the first 18 to 20 years of my life was hell, plagued with a low self esteem, an unshakeable introversion, and full of all kinds of emotionally abusive people.

And it seems to me that my mother was partly responsible for it all. Because she didn't want a scar on her tummy.

You know what's ironical? In my teens my mother had her womb removed due to recurring fibroids so she has a scar on her tummy anyway.

It's been more than 6 years since I first found out and I still don't know how I should be feeling about it so I vacillate between being angry and being resigned.

But maybe because I am the eternal optimist or that I realised quickly that nothing is going to change my past, I don't really think much about it now, as in the fact that my mother gambled with my life for something superficial doesn't eat away at me any longer. Only that once in a while, then I down a shot of rum and sleep it off.

I have a new colleague who is the younger brother of someone who was in school with me so we have been talking about the past in the last few weeks.

While recounting our conversations to Husband one night, it occurred to me that if we turn back time and I made some decisions differently, I would still have been as miserable as I was because my misery came from my life situation during those parts of my life and not really from my surroundings.

So there is really no need to think about what could have or would have been. It would not have changed a thing. All of it has been done and over.

With that thought, I felt liberated from a lot of the dark things in my life.

Now I just constantly remind myself that I should not emotionally blackmail my kids. I try to be as honest with them as I can, especially about interpersonal relationships, so that they can grow up with realistic expectations about people and life, and maybe not have their hearts broken too often.


On hiring people with strange names –

"Was he assuming that you are hiring a cabaret dancer?"
"For the record. I would never hire someone named Tharizdun or even Succubus."
"Their names have no bearings on their work ethics. Maybe other ethics but not work ethics."
"I am an equal opportunity employer. I make offers to all hobbits."
"So now you know. If you ever want to be gainfully employed while trying to raise a dark cult and bring about Armageddon, look no further than the legal sector."

"I'm sorry I have started drinking at 4pm. I'm thirsty and the only thing I have to drink on my desk right now is alcohol."
"It's okay. I would be drinking too if I could."

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Another Sunday at the Gardens.

We're at this awkward stage where I can't get enough to eat when we eat out.

When we eat out, we usually order an adult portion of something for both kids to share, or we order two adult portions for each of them and I eat the leftovers for both.

Lately they have been eating more than half of their adult portions so I am eating less and less. But it doesn't make sense ordering an additional adult portion because then we will have too much food.

So I will order some starters to supplement right. But the problem with kids is that their appetites are completely unpredictable! Everytime I order starters they will pick at their food and then we end up with too much food again.


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My 5-year-old can write his name!

"Mummy, 冬菇 is East Shroom!"

I saw Cammy Whiskers lick Fyodor briefly on the head today. Are they finally getting along? *crosses fingers*

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