After work, we went for a quiet drink: it had been a long week with much to do, and it was good to ease gently into the weekend.
Four bucket-sized glasses of Hoegaarden later, things were going a bit south. If we’d stopped then, instead of starting in on the wine, things might have been ok.
If we’d stopped then, instead of going back onto beer, we might have limited the damage.
If we hadn’t played an ill-advised drinking game called “Buzz Cock” then we might have retained some semblence of decency.
If we hadn’t decided to finish off with two hours of drinking cheap whisky and dancing like morons in an empty club in Clarke Quay, I’d have had some hope of being rested for the weekend.
Conscious that I’d turn into a pumpkin if I stayed out too long, I quit before midnight and began the short walk home.
After ten minutes I realised I’d walked in exactly the wrong direction, and somehow flagged a taxi down to take me back to Chinatown.
Please, no more booze.
I know what to do – let’s just sue the government!
I’m coming down with a cold, which is a ridiculous thing to happen in a tropical country. I have muscular pains in my legs, my head aches and my voice is deterioating into a whisper. I’ve taken vitamin C, paracetamol and chocolate and still I feel quite, quite grotty.
Continue reading “Sick of returning to vomit”
Near my office is a cafe called Settlers; it’s in a row of shops and bars that starts with a vaguely lacklustre bar and ends with one of those karaoke joints where there are no windows and you have a terrible (but possibly unjustified) sense of foreboding when you walk past. Having said that, Settlers isn’t particularly dodgy; in fact, it won some sort of award in 2012 for being a good business in Singapore.
Continue reading “Settlers”
How come you never hear the phrase “I’m not racist but …” apart from when it suffixes something racist? To my knowledge, nobody has ever said “I’m not racist, but did you know that bauxite is the most plentiful source of aluminium in the world?”
Then again, you never hear anyone say
“I’m not hungry, but I’m just going to eat this sandwich”
“I’m not interested, but I’m going to listen to what you say anyway”
“I’m not medically qualified, but I fancy having a go at heart surgery”
Hmm. Needs a bit of work, that one.
Today I read another book set partly underground, the rather odd Ribblestrop. Rather than being full ofexcrement-encrusted soldiers, it’s populated with some fairly likeable children (one with an indestructible head, another missing a toe but with a mysterious fortune, a feisty heroine, a gang of eccentric Himalayans), some unlikeable or ineffective adults, an underground labyrinth and a series of twists that are sometimes obvious (the money that rescues the school part way through) and others not (such as how the backstory relates to the present day inhabitants of the school’s grounds).
Continue reading “Ribblestrop”
After devouring the first two parts of Ian Tregillis’ Milkweed Triptych, I was given as a bonus item the first chapter of T. C. McCarthy’s Germline, which seemed a fairly gung-ho future war story. But it was for free and I was in a bookshop in Taipei two weekends ago, so when I found the trilogy I picked them all up and read through them in a couple of days.
Germline tells the story of a journalist, embedded with US Marines. In tunnels, deep underground, where there is no water. Do Marines do anything marine, I wonder? These are soldiers into heavy duty battlesuits, and McCarthy is the first author I’ve read who has engaged with the thorny question of how soldiers in heavy duty battlesuits go to the toilet. These guys are stuck deep underground, for months at a time. That’s why it’s called the Subterrene Trilogy.
Well, because they’re subterreanean, and because they’re military they have no time for speaking in unabbreviated sentences, because they are busy blowing things up. I had strange thoughts of some deaf marines, stuck in an old folks’ home, reliving the horrors of the Soup Tureen War, but that’s for another day.
There is no soup in the Subterrene War, and even fewer tureens. More’s the pity.
Continue reading “The Subterrene War Trilogy”