Scribbles from the Same Island
Page 18
“Look, for the last time. I never asked to take your picture.”
“Don’t bluff ah. You always ask to take our photograph what?” More giggling.
“No I don’t.”
“Okay lah, never mind. Next time can ... You want to play with our balls instead?”
Well, the dropping pin was deafening. And before you say anything, they were referring to their bloody footballs! They always took more than one because the surplus balls were used as goal posts opposite the void deck pillars. Both my girlfriend and I spent half the night explaining this to her parents, while retelling the journalist/photographer story. Though I’ve been forced to concede since that the possibility of carrying a camera with me, on the off chance that I should meet the void deck posse, is looking increasingly likely. I could whack the little bastards with it.
They just can’t keep their mouths shut, which is unlike my old mini-mart owner who rarely said anything. Except on weekends, when we held the same conversation on every occasion. Handing over my change at the counter, he would smirk and say: “I read your funny column in the newspaper today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah ... hmm.”
And that’s all he ever said. He would grin at me, all-knowingly, and hum. It’s happened dozens of times. He never comments on the column, never refers to it or makes any further conversation whatsoever. I ask my girlfriend to go in on weekends now, because I know I lack self-restraint.
Recently, he said: “I read your column again ... hmm.” And I could feel myself saying: “Hmm fucking what?”
If that wasn’t enough, I have a similar chat with a real Toa Payoh lunatic every Saturday. Without fail, she will approach me, usually around lunchtime, and say: “I read your humour column today mate.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah ... it was shit.”
But I have no choice but to exercise self-restraint with that fruitcake. I live with her.
Having switched apartments, I no longer come across the living legends of Lorong 1. Aside from ‘bra lady’/Rock DJ Auntie, there was Vidal Sassoon, whom I’ve referred to before. An elderly lady who lost her marbles in 1962, she used to wander around my block and peer into my apartment whenever the mood took her. The poor woman dressed in dirty, ripped clothes, but had the most immaculate hairdo I’ve ever seen this side of the Oscar’s ceremony. But, sadly, I haven’t seen her in a year now. She might have died, but I suspect it’s more likely that staff at the local mental hospital got fed up with chasing her around Toa Payoh with a big net. Wherever Vidal is right now, I’m sure there isn’t a hair out of place.
Now I’m in Lorong 2, I’ve yet to meet my fellow funny farmers. But I’m not unduly concerned. They usually find me. But there is a postscript to my humming mini-mart owner. Two months after I moved, he sent an email to my office. I’d never even given him the email address. In the email, he said: “I’ve noticed that you no longer come to my shop so I assume you moved to a new flat. Consequently, our sale of fizzy drinks, particularly the raspberry flavoured one, has dropped significantly. Would you therefore like me to arrange a case of raspberry drink to be delivered to your new apartment? Your shopkeeper.” It was a wonderful, piss-taking letter. Though I was disappointed that it didn’t contain a single hum.
I love these people. Despite the persistent stereotyping, they’re willing to laugh at themselves and God knows, they have absolutely no problem laughing at me. That’s why I’ve never lived anywhere else, but Toa Payoh. Why should I leave? Where would I go? To a condo? I can’t see myself spending weekends by a swimming pool, listening to Caucasian con artists spout bullshit all day. Those places are more suited to the clientele at the Cricket and Polo Clubs, where I suspect I’d be about as welcome as a fart on an MRT train.
For the most part, Toa Payoh’s residents have been nothing but warm and generous to me. To dismiss such kindness by attributing it to the ‘white man factor’ is insulting. I’ve lived in this estate for seven years now. Where’s the novelty value in that? It’s nonsense.
On top of all that benevolence, of course, are the fringe benefits. Here, I get a giggling old woman offering to show me her ‘beth-seats’, a geriatric Princess Leia impersonator and cheeky school kids waving their balls at me. True, we had the stuttering Maltese Tony in Dagenham, but nothing compares to the characters in my Singaporean neighbourhood.
With family ties to consider, I have no idea where I will be living five years from now. But wherever it is, the place will have a hell of a lot to live up to. Because Toa Payoh, in my humble opinion, is a bloody great place to live in.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NEIL Humphreys grew up in the working-class town of Dagenham, Essex. Despite being mugged there, twice, and enduring one of the most dire comprehensive school educations this side of Oliver Twist, he was still criticised by some residents for fleeing with his first-class degree. When they discovered the price of alcohol in Singapore, they said he was welcome to the Chinese province.
Having spent several happy years pretending to be an English speech and drama teacher in Singapore, he now spends his working hours pretending to be a journalist and occasional author. By 2001, he was one of the country’s best-selling authors. His first book, Notes from an even Smaller Island, became an immediate best-seller and travelled across Southeast Asia, Australia and Britain. The book appeared on the Singapore best-seller list for over three years. In 2003, his second book, Scribbles from the Same Island, a compilation of his popular humour columns in WEEKEND TODAY, was launched in Singapore and Malaysia and also became an immediate best-seller. Humphreys believes more young Singaporeans should be brave enough to take arts degrees.