A little whisper in the dark

Clear your own table

I eat at fast food restaurants, food courts, more the norm than the exception nowadays since I started working. And the area where I work, seems to attract a fair number of expatriate employees of the Western variety.

Now, being the little frog that BG Lee (who so kindly decided to remind me at the Fabric of the Nation display when he sewed a frog on a fabric) at the bottom of the well that is Singapore, I don't know what's the protocol in foreign fast food restaurants; heck, I didn't even know that a packet of ketchup runs you $0.30 in Australia! Anyway, I digress. These people tend to clean up after they eat - bring the tray, the trash, to the bins themselves.

Why don't Singaporeans do it more often? It doesn't happen often, I can tell you that. Walk into an eatery during lunch hour and count the carnage on the table.

Yes, I take issue with that. Perhaps these working individuals can't see the workers who are frantically trying to clear the plates as quickly as they're being left behind. Workers (who have to keep working after retirement because they can't afford to live on their pensions, who the gahmen encourages to retrain and keep themselves useful) who are above fifty. Sometimes so old they're bent double. Who should be bouncing grandchildren on their laps instead of shuffling and balancing trays of plates and trash. Who could be your dad. My dad. Your mom. My mom.

Yeah, I know, if everyone does it, then they'd be out of a job, some would say. So I'm creating a job for them by leaving my utensils behind. Well, if you're at peace with that.

I'm at peace with myself when I say thank you when they clear my table before I leave, and clear up after myself if they don't.

Do you see what I see, or are you as blind as the rest of the population?

posted by Chung Leong @ 2:23 AM 0 comments

Its all about choices

Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?

Now I've justified this to myself in all sorts of ways. It wasn't a big deal, just a minor betrayal. Or we'd outgrown each other, you know, that sort of thing. But let's face it, I ripped them off-- my so called mates. But Begbie, I couldn't give a shit about him. And Sick Boy, well he'd done the same to me, if he'd only thought of it first. And Spud, well okay, I felt sorry for Spud --he never hurt anybody. So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers -- all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change -- I'm going to chage. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you.The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

A whirling, nonsensical prose delivered in thick British (I think they call it Geordie or summat - perhaps Wandie could help out here), accent, that somehow finds a pace, finds a rhythm, and gets a rhyme.

Ironically I'd watched a spoof of the movie it came from before cottoning on to the real thing. It's good.

posted by Chung Leong @ 12:25 AM 0 comments