stories

Spit on Red Clogs

Spit on Red Clogs

We have a situation here. The pair of red clogs outside our place for the longest time have been receiving much attention. But in the form of spit. Someone has been spitting regularly on our red clogs which we received on our wedding day. It’s been placed strategically outside for a special reason I guess.

I tried searching online for some significant reason as to the tradition of placing wooden red clogs outside the main door, but alas, I found nothing. So I guess we will have to make it up as we go along. To me it means “home” and “family bliss”. It means a home filled with happiness and wonderful memories. It means a home complete with laughter and joyous feasting. It represents everything wholesome that a family should and would have.

Now that someone has been spitting on it regularly, I can only conclude that this is a case for the PJ Masks! On closer inspection it looked like spit. My woman smelt it (brave) and concluded that it was spit. But the pertinent question was. Whose spit it was. And more importantly why spit on the red clogs only and no where else?

I think they are envious of our family life. We are a household of song and laughter, tears and cries, but everything that we do at home we enjoy doing it very much. So whoever that’s been spitting on our red clogs must probably be feeling bitter, upset, jealous, denial, anger and probably a whole slew of negative emotions that is apart from what a normal functioning family would experience.

My woman wants to install a cctv to catch the culprit. I was more interested in plotting a graph to see the trend and then sharing the findings via info graphics at the door. I think whoever that is doing what they have been doing should be mindfully aware that we are aware and that if we were to find out who it was that has been doing this heinous deed, they would know how powerful a gust of wind can be or how insistent simple droplets of rainwater can erode away rock.

So my woman did the next most pragmatic thing. She removed the red clogs and now there is nothing in front of my main door. Hmmmmm..

Noodles on Prada

Noodles on Prada

It’s definitely one of the great mysteries of life when everything comes together, literally, in a haphazard whirlwind of localised flavours and foreign brands. Yes, the combination is not good, not even in a Warhol fantasy. Andy would turn over in his grave knowing that such sacrilegious acts were happening in sunny island set in the sea Singapore.

Alright maybe you would disagree. Maybe if he knew about it, he might turn a blind eye to it in the name of art. But I bet he would pity the lady who wore the Prada privately under his breath. Some believe he was a closet bad art sympathiser.

So was the noodles even tasty or nice? Hmm.. I honestly don’t know. I was too busy whacking the satay and maybe four sambal prawns. A cup of cold Cheng tng later, I am off to the last station which was the Momolato salted caramel – very nice. Yes, I totally had no capacity left for noodles.

So here I was chit-chatting with some old buddies and we were just deep in conversation, talking about how pervasive social media has become and how one wrong message shared unintentionally could become viral wildfire the next hour. And then this happened.

It was all about hurt feelings at the end of the day, how we hurt each other with the words we say (sounds like a line from George Michael’s “Careless Whisper”). So we just have to muster up courage and say sorry and hopefully we can all move on.

And just as we agreed and nodded our heads at that statement, a girl holding a plate of the lovely noodles walked past us and before we knew it, the oscillating blades of the mobile air cooler swivelled and turned in our direction and let out a blast of cold air, flipped her noodles ala fireworks style (it was very powerful) and all the strands fell sluggishly and unglamorously on some other lady’s turquoise Prada sling shoulder bag.

I could almost hear the girl gasp as she screamed with her inner voice. She must have known the price of the limited edition Prada. The lady was needless to say mortified beyond belief. She gawked at the noodle strands hanging precariously on her bag and stood helplessly, as if immobilised. And I muttered silently under my breath, “quick say sorry..” I could almost hear Bruno screaming Versace on the floor albeit this was Noodles on Prada. It was a crick crick moment.

So was the noodles nice? I think it was.