Mr And Mrs Write

"I have a love story to share," Stanley randomly told me the other day.

"And I want to read this in your blog," he demanded.

I was very scared to ask my sex bunny friend Stanley what type of love story he's about to make me hear -- and write about, given his track record.

"It's a love story about my mum and dad," he told me excitedly over a WhatsApp video call.

"My mum being the protagonist in this love story."

I was even more scared to ask for details.

If Stanley's type of love stories is anything to go by, I might well be forced to picture the respectable and formidable Mrs Monica Ong doing things no children should ever be subject to seeing in their lifetime.

"Oie… this is a PG story ok," Stanley warned, clapping his hands in front of  his phone camera to make his point. "My mum was just retelling her story about how she met my dad the other day, and I thought it was too romantic not to share."

So, ladies and gentlemen, this is a story about my sex bunny friend Stanley's parents.

Told to you by Stanley, through my hand.

To start the ball rolling, Stanley added Carl to the WhatsApp video call.

It's that important.

Our dense friend Carl lit up the moment he joined us.

"I am so bored! I miss you guys!" Carl said.

"What the heck are you doing. Are you planking?" Stanley asked.

"Yes... on some days, I like to lie very still and engage my abs," Carl replied, not sounding breathless at all.

"I totally know what you mean. On some days, I also like to lie very still and engage abs --  that belong to a hot guy hovering above me," Stanley said without missing a beat.

I am really beginning to worry about the love story of Stanley's mum that is about to unfold.

Once upon a time, when there were no communicative devices, two people from across the island met by way of fate and fell in love.

Carl looked up from planking and was about to question the purpose of the video call when Stanley held up a hand in front of his phone camera, telling him to shush.

My dad had responded to an ad in some magazine for pen pals.

It was an ad that my mum's classmates had placed for her.

Thing is, my mum didn't even know her friends did that behind her back... which is so different from me. I always know what activities go on behind my back.

But back to my mum.

Imagine her surprise when she started receiving letters from what I imagine is a mountain of letters from potential suitors!

Carl, who loves all sorts of love stories, immediately stopped planking and sat up, his attention undivided on Stanley.

At first, my mum thought it was really silly -- who has time to read and write letters, she said.

"Carl... what the heck are you doing?! It's obscene, stop it!" Stanley squealed.

Carl, who was arching his right leg all the way up to the back of his neck, said: "Don't mind me -- I am doing yoga, but I love your story. Don't stop!!!!"

Anyway, my mum told herself she had no time for such nonsense, but decided to play along and just pick one letter and write back, just to see what sort of loser guys write to her.

Carl, who by now had both his legs arched upwards behind his neck, was beaming with excitement.

My mum's first thoughts about my dad's letter were oh my, this Robert Ong guy is the world's most dull person. But let's write back and see how else he can bore me.

And then, Stanley paused and added, "I would do the same too if I were my mum -- I always like to know how men can bore, drill and poke me."

And so the exchange of the letters began.

It started with one intentionally short letter my mum wrote. Very brief. Just enough to get my dad's attention.

This time, my dad wrote an even longer letter, which my mum later felt was "not too bad".

"Carl, if you continue to do this I will have to cut you off this video call," Stanley warned sternly, recoiling with disgust by the sight of Carl pushing his awkwardly pretzeled body up from the ground using his palm.

Carl the dense one grinned back like a goon and began to move his body like a human swing.

Anyway, my mum and dad began writing back and forth and the exchanges lasted for four months.

"Wow, that's quite romantic," I said.

"Yes, Adam. I was actually quite moved by my parents' innocent beginnings of love. Are you taking notes? You ought to. I want to read this in your blog," Stanley said.

I think this is all fated.

I mean, my mum is really beautiful -- she has so many suitors back in school.

She's effectively the village belle, something that I inherited from her.

"I thought they called you the village bicycle, Stan? A bicycle 'cos everyone in the village has each taken a ride?" Carl asked innocently.

"Who the heck said that about me?!"

Carl eyed me suspiciously.

"Shush, Yogi Carl. Stan is telling us a love story," I said.

So, after four months of being pen pals, my dad popped the question and soon they were on their first date.

"Wait -- they know each other for four months but don't know how each other looked like?" Carl asked, incredulous.

"Yes... and that's very exciting right?" Stanley said, adding "it's like when we were younger and went on IRC, and then meeting our hookups without exchanging pics. Come to think of it, my parents were the pioneer generation of IRC, Tinder and Grindr."

"No wonder you turned out like that," I pointed out.

"Hey, that's mean, Adam. You ought to show more respect to the direct descendant of the Tinder pioneers," Stanley said.

"And Carl, what on earth are you doing. Are you possessed?" Stanley said, exasperated with our restless, flexible friend.

Our gym rabbit pal is now on yet another yoga pose, his python sized biceps supporting his body that's arched upwards in an upside down V.

"This is called the downward dog," Carl explained.

"Oh, no, no darling, that's not how I would do a downward dog -- I know, I studied the kamastura," Stanley cut in.

"Story, story, back to your parents' story please."

Oh, so anyway, my mum and dad dated for the next six months... the best part is, they continued writing to each other even after they met!

Carl and I let out a collective awww. 

"See?"

Stanley held up a photo album, flipping it open to show us yellowed pages of letters.

They kept each other's letters!

Stanley's mum's handwriting was classic cursive. Very ladylike, very posh, whereas Uncle Robert's handwriting was, for the lack of a better word, rather basic.

After about two years, they fell in love, Stanley said.

And it's really true love because back then, my dad was a pauper while my mum came from an upper-middle class Peranakan family.

But they both by then were madly in love.

They went through thick and thin, said Stanley who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth after his dad's construction business took off a few years after his parents got married.

"I want to be like my parents too," Stanley said.

I want to go through thick and thin, long and short, curved and straight, until I find the one that's just nice," said Stanley the Goldicocks.

"The letters are so old school and so romantic," Carl said with envy, leaning towards his phone for a closer look.

"Did your parents send letters to each other using pigeons?" Carl asked with genuine curiosity.

"Not anymore. They decommissioned pigeons by the late 60s because they needed to create jobs for postmen," Stanley said dryly.

Carl nodded, happy to have gained knowledge.

"Besides, I think birds can be trained to do a lot more other exciting jobs," Stanley said, patting his arm suggestively.

"But if I were to have pigeons carry my letters, I highly suspect my bird would be carrying the letters S, T and D."

---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Bad Romance

My best girlfriend Nisa recently mentioned that her all-time favourite movie, Young And Dangerous, is on Netflix.

It's a Hong Kong movie about handsome gangsters.

And this stirred up memories.

I have a story that I haven't told many people about.

Stanley my sex bunny friend, whom I've known longer than my partner J, knows this story very well.

"Why the heck are you bringing it up again?" Stanley wanted to know.

"Are you running out of topics for your blog? Just tell me -- I'll do overtime and sleep around more to inspire you," said Stanley who later added that he knew when he was young that being promiscuous would some day help mankind.

The story I'm about to share with you is something very personal. A memory that's been buried deep in my heart.

Stanley later told me that if I wanted to really bury a memory, the heart isn't where it should be kept.

"I know many other parts of the body which are so deep, it can keep a lot of things," he said.

The year was -- okay, I can't remember exactly which year it was. Let's just put the timeline as the late 90s.

It was just months before I did national service, so I was around 19 years old.

And it was also before I met Stanley and Carl.

Whom I did meet back then, was Mike.

And he's central to the story.

Mike is just a year younger than I.

We met in a gay chatroom and since I was single, we decided to meet.

But we were very innocent -- we didn't meet for any hanky panky.

In fact, our first meeting was at a café near Mike's house.

Mike and I are as different as night and day.

In a nutshell, we were from totally different worlds.

I was about to start NS, all geared up for what's to come: Uni life, great friends, lots of partying at bars. And then, maybe a good career and lots and lots of money.

For Mike, he was probably looking at just spending time behind bars -- the caged kind.

Mike, unlike any other gay boy I knew back then, was very different.

He was totally butch. You can't tell he's gay.

If you met Mike back then, you might avoid him.

He was a motorcycle riding gang member (his gang is linked to several temples, he told me) and his family background is complex: His dad is a secret society member and his mum dabbles in illegal gambling businesses.

Stanley, whom I shared the story with years later, was very excited because he always thought that a gangster who knew how to ride was very sexy.

Well, yes, Mike is sexy. And very cute too.

He had thick eyebrows, large puppy eyes, nice floppy hair like Aaron Kowk's, and although he had some belly fat, he was tall and big built and looked like he was willing to slash his parang at anyone who would bully me.

In short, Mike is a fearsome gangster to his friends, but deep in his closet, he's a wholesome gay boy.

I met Mike in that capacity -- the gay boy exploring his sexuality.

So I have never seen or feared him the way his ex-secondary school mates did.

He had scars on his body, and Mike has police records that started when he was 14.

Point is, Mike and I are totally different. Yes, I think I said that already.

Yet, I felt strangely attracted to Mike.

Our first date at the café near his house was rather fun.

We talked about ourselves, and learnt about each other.

He referred to me as the good boy and of course, admitted that he was a really bad boy.

When we ended our first date, I told myself that I did like Mike, but the logical side of me kept pushing back those nice feelings I felt for Mister Bad Boy.

But when Mike asked me for a second date days later, I readily said yes.

This time, we went to drink bubble tea.

And then came the third and fourth dates.

On our fifth date, Mike brought me to his home.

Nobody was home.

I took a quick glance around his flat and noticed there were three altars with ferocious-looking deities in the living room. Mike didn't take me on a tour of his home, because our destination was his bedroom.

On date number five, we finally got intimate. And let's just say that he was indeed young and dangerous.

After the deed, I thought maybe that would mark the end of our, hmm, would I say it's a relationship?

Because if Mike were to be treated as the gangster whom he is, and the player whom he looks to be, then after having sex with me, he would stop calling right?

Was I wrong.

After date number five, Mike seemed to be even softer and more caring.

He told me he liked me, and although we would both likely have very different paths ahead of us, he said he wanted us to give it a try.

"What's the problem. You like me, I like you. That's most important right?"

To be honest, I did like Mike very much.

I liked not just how cute and dashing he is, but also how gentle and caring he is to me.

On date number six, Mike told me to be prepared to spend an entire day with him.

That Saturday morning, he waited for me near my home.

He didn't ride his bike.

I thought, like some of our past dates, we'd hang out at some nearby café or mall.

But five minutes into our meeting, Mike smiled and then raised his hand to flag down a cab.

"Where are we going?"

No answer.

"Just come along -- you promised me your entire day," was the answer.

Of course, I found my answer as soon as we got into the cab: Changi Jetty.

Oh, that's new. I've never been there, I thought to myself.

On the one hand, I was very excited because this is a new adventure.

But damn it, on the other hand, a nagging voice in my head told me to STOP FEELING THIS WAY YOU FOOL... because if you enjoy this too much, you're gonna fall for him. What future do you have with this gangster? Sure, you and him can speak Chinese all day long. But when it's time for you to introduce Mike to your circle of friends, he will never fit in.

And so I went through the entire day with Mike with such a mindset, such a struggle.

I love this day, no I can't love this day. I like Mike, no I can't fall for him.

At Changi Jetty, it turns out that Mike had further plans for us.

And so to Pulau Ubin we went, laughing at every bump of the sea journey there.

We were to spend half the day at the island cycling and laughing and looking at strange insects, watching out for wild boars. Resting under a tree. And then cycling some more.

Nobody in my circle of friends would have come up with such a spontaneous, adventurous date.

Don't enjoy this day, Adam. Don't fall for him, Adam. He's a good date, he's a good fuck, he's not going to be a good boyfriend or husband. Don't look at him in his eyes. Don't melt when he smiles at you. 

By late afternoon, after we returned our bikes, Mike and I took a stroll along Pulau Ubin.

He held my hand as we walked along the island.

I swear if he had proposed to me there and then, I might not have the logical mind to say no.

We then left for hawker food back on the mainland, where Mike ordered cockles among other things.

I remember because Mike lit up the whole time, his eyes sparking with joy as he sucked noisily on cockles while edging me on to try them 'cos they were his favourite food.

It was a most romantic day: Spontaneous, enjoyable, innocent and very puppy love-like.

That night, Mike sent me home and we rode the bus together.

He held my hand at the back of the bus.

He asked if I had a good time.

Of course I had.

To this date, it is one of the most romantic dates I had been on.

Then Mike popped the question.

"Will you be my boyfriend?" my handsome gangster asked.

To this day, I cannot imagine that as a hot-blooded 19 year old, I would allow my head to rule over my heart.

Though my heart had melted and that I really did like Mike, at the end of the day, the true boss was my head.

And my head told me to get real. To not be fooled by this exciting wave of romance.

He's not good for you. Not good enough. You're not going to be happy. You're from two totally different worlds. 

I was telling myself all these thing which should rightfully have come out of the mouth of a concerned, uptight mother chiding her daughter.

That night, though it broke my heart, and most of all, Mike's, I let go of his hand on the bus, and told him: "Mike, let's just be friends."

Of course, I'm in a very happy, long-term relationship with my partner J now.

But I sometimes ask myself. If I could turn back time, would I have said yes to Mike? And what would become of us?

I don't know.

I don't have any regrets.

Perhaps, the only regret I have is that I did not allow myself to fully let go, and fully enjoy that entire day of Date Number Six with Mike. Our final date.



---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Old Is Gold

When you're over 40, there'll come a point when you will cling on to anything that makes you believe you're still young.

"What do you hear, quick!" Stanley demanded in our group chat.

"Is it safe for work?" I ask, given the track record of Stanley my sex bunny friend.

"Very safe -- in fact, click on the link, put it on loud speaker and tell me what people around you are hearing!"

Carl our dense friend was first to reply.

"Yenni".

"Fuck," Stanley said.

"What about you, Adam?"

"Yenni."

"Fuck," Stanley said again.

The audio activity, which is finding its rounds again online, is apparently a test to see how young a person is.

There's this voice recording that would produce different sounds to the young and old

If you're young, you'd hear Yenni. And if you're older, you'd pick up a different frequency of sound wave, making you hear "Laurel" instead.

"What about you Stan?"

"I heard Yenni too," he said, sounding less happy than he should.

"But now that both you old bitches are also hearing Yenni, I'm beginning to doubt the authenticity of this test," Stanley said.

For the sake of experiment, I posted the clip in my other group chats.

Nisa my best girl friend heard "Laurel".

Terry my best straight friend, interestingly, hears both.

"Describe to me what you hear," I ask Terry.

"I hear a mix of both Yenni and Laurel," Terry said simply.

I shared the results of the social experiment with Stanley who is fascinated.

"Firstly, Nisa, who can pass off as a chubby primary six boy if she wears a cap and binds her enormous boobs, cannot be that old," Stanley said.

"And Terry! He hears both! You know what that means?"

To our surprise, Carl volunteered to answer.

"It means that if he were in the world of Netflix, he would be a hero," said our dense friend Carl who recently discovered Netflix.

"In Netflix, Sabrina is half-human, half-witch," Carl explained. "And in Castlevania the cartoon, Alucard is half-human, half vampire. And in RuPaul's drag race, they're all half man, half woman. This means that Terry, who is half-half can also be a hero!"

Stanley later told me that if only Carl applied himself well in real life, he could have turned out less dense.

But Carl is doing his level best.

He's applying himself well alright. From SKII and night and day creams, to all sorts of facial masques and serums, he's been applying them all on himself.

To Carl, fighting ageing is as important a battle as fighting diabetes or cancer.

Most of Carl's adult life had been dedicated to prolonging his youth.

Stanley used to say that if Carl were born in another era and had power, he'd be the one who's always prowling for the elixir of youth.

"And if I were born in a different era and had power, I too would be on the prowl for youths," Stanley said, unable to help himself.

The discussion of ageing, the concern about ageing never gets old in my group.

And the topic stirred to life recently when Stanley went to buy alcohol at a nearby shop.

Our friend had worn a face mask, and given that Stanley is lean and has short cropped hair, he did come across as a young boy.

He was most delighted when the aunty asked him "hey, you look like poly student. You sure you can buy wine ah?"

Stanley let out a hearty laughter and if not for the fear of spreading COVID, Stanley would have hugged the aunty tightly there and then.

My sex bunny friend later posted  a photo of himself and demanded that we agreed he looked underage.

It got me thinking.

The only way to get someone to mistake me as a youth would be for me to don a face mask -- the type superheroes would wear to cover up all their facial features.

Already, as a youth, my face is riddled with pock marks.

As I aged, Time had mercilessly sketched out crow's feet from the corner of my eyes.

My eyelids are also starting to sag, the way my man boobs, buttocks and every part of my once-firm body is heading.

On some days when I do examine photos of myself, I see just how much I've aged.

And to my utter surprise, I feel numb.

"I know how that feels," Stanley said comfortingly.

"On some nights, I feel numb too -- and I start to worry. Where's my gag reflex?"

But unlike Carl, Stanley and I are able to embrace ageing.

I used to tell Carl and Stanley about this very old man in my estate.

He's a very flamboyant old man. Around 70, has a head full of black hair, very well spoken, very wealthy and his staple wardrobe pieces are super tight singlets with ultra short shorts. And mind you, this lao gay is in shape -- lean and fit.

And because we live in the same estate, we've become friends, although to be frank, I'm kinda creeped out by him because he does come across as being on the prowl.

But this old man is a prime example of how we can all age well, no matter how creepy he is, I say to the boys.

Leave it to Stanley to spoil it for me.

"Adam, don't you think that this old man sounds like your future self?"

"I mean, think about it -- this old man does sound like your current self... what if he were indeed your future self who's come back to warn you about something and you keep avoiding him 'cos you're creeped out by how scary you are!"

"It makes sense you know," says Stanley who continues to join the dots for me.

"Because he is you, he would know where to find you... which explains why you keep bumping into the old you!"

"If only you weren't creeped out by yourself.... you'd know a lot of things from your future..."

---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Boss From Hell

It was an unusual outing.

Not the type my boys and I would normally do.

That Saturday night, instead of dressing up and slutting it up around town, my sex bunny friend Stanley and I gathered at Carl our dense friend's home.

Our favourite part of Carl's home is his big balcony -- open, airy, offers a great view.

"Sounds like a porn tape featuring upskirt videos," Stanley said, setting three bottles of red wine on Carl's table.

Snacks were brought out and places at the table quickly taken.

Tonight, we were summoned.

Carl is disturbed.

And he needs comfort.

Our dense friend recently had a change of boss.

A woman boss.

A woman boss from hell, to be exact.

And Carl, who usually fears vaginas, is even more traumatised after working with her for just two months.

Said woman boss from hell is really quite something.

She's toxic, harmful but goes all out to put on a nice façade in front of everyone else, according to Carl.

"She sounds like branded cigarettes," Stanley pointed out.

"Yes, that bitch can really give you cancer," said Carl, who is usually very gentle.

For the first three weeks working under her, Carl had the impression that all was good.

"Now, that's where you are wrong," Stanley interrupted, pointing his finger forcefully at Carl.

"When you are under a woman, nothing can turn out fine," said Stanley, who went on to remind us that his mum, the formidable Mrs Monica Ong, had taught him as a child to never walk under a block of flats where women panties were hung out to dry on bamboo sticks.

Turns out, after working for this woman boss from hell, Carl slowly saw how insidious this woman really is.

Her tactics are unscrupulous.

She would first chip at Carl's confidence, nitpicking on every single piece of work he submitted.

And the worst part is, she never says it as it is.

She would always put on a look like she's very concerned for Carl's future.

Carl went on to imitate her, frowning and tilting his head sideways and leaning forward to us, speaking in his best impression of a woman's voice.

"Carl, stop it before I punch you in your nose," warned Stanley.

"Exactly! I wanted to punch her and judo-slam her to the floor and punch her again!" Carl said, his python sized biceps turning from pale to a dangerous shade of seething iron-hot red.

As if that's not enough, that woman boss from hell would never offer Carl any solution, any expectation or any guidance.

Just words like "Well.... it's not perfect" or "that's not exactly what I was looking for", or "what went wrong Carl? This isn't what we discussed."

And recently, Carl found out from some of his senior managers that woman boss from hell had tried to sow discord in the team.

"You're not really up to my expectations, Carl. Even the senior managers agree," woman boss from hell told him the other day.

Thankfully, Carl approached each of the senior managers to ask them how he could improve, only to discover that they had never said anything like that about Carl to woman boss from hell.

Carl then dramatically slumped his shoulders in defeat, picked up his phone and started tapping away mindlessly.

"What are you doing Carl," Stanley asks.

"I'm solving problems," Carl replied dully, lifting his phone to show us his Candy Crush game.

"Ooooh, I have the same hobby too," Stanley said, whipping his phone out to show us a slew of cute men, mostly half naked with durian seed-like abs.

"Erm, that's Tinder, Stan," I said.

"No -- it's man candy crush. Geddit?"

Nobody laughed.

In fact, Carl looked like he wanted to cry.

"Now, now, Carl dear, we'll get through this together," Stanley said, sounding like a wise old English granny talking to the cold and homeless.

"But first, show me a photo of her. I want to see how that bitch looks like."

Carl obediently tapped his phone and conjured an image of woman boss from hell.

"Oh my goodness," Stanley said. "Do not accept any apples this woman offers you."

Carl managed a weak smile.

"Let's unpack all of these emotions," Stanley said gently.

"I'm very good at unpacking -- especially packages of male strangers," he added.

Stanley then switched gears, going from power bottom to super top management, putting his peoples-management skills to super good use.

"Listen up, buddy," Stanley said, sounding like he was a war commander giving instructions to his troops.

"To attack such bullies, such psychopaths, you'll need to get into their head space. Get in there, have a good look around, see their weak spots to know how to deal with them," Stanley said.

I was impressed.

Carl the dense one blinked blankly at Stanley.

If we were to enter Carl's head space, we would be in a very empty warehouse where if you asked out loud 'Is anyone home?', you'd hear echoes of home, home, home... 

If one were to enter Stanley's head space, God forbid what you might find in there.

Probably a very dark cellar with maize-like settings where you'll have to find your way out. Be careful though -- you might stumble upon chains and cages and sex toys.

But I digress.

According to Stanley the human behavioural expert, Carl has to understand why woman from hell boss acts this way.

Best of all, Stanley says "you'll need to find out what gives her pleasure."

Carl the dense one gulps, his python size biceps launching into spasms at the thought of pleasuring his woman boss from hell.

"The more you know what she enjoys, the more you will want to avoid giving her that," said Stanley, who, to his credit, did not pause to throw in a sex joke.

"So you know she likes to chip at your confidence. You know she makes stories up. You know she likes to sow discord -- which means, if you crumble, if you believe her, if you and your colleagues' ties are soured, she will get the ultimate satisfaction. So, you'll have to look confident, and you'll have to show her you and your colleagues get along super well."

Carl lit up.

"Now, that's how you fuck with your enemy," said Stanley, war strategist.

Carl's shoulders slumped instinctively, his face contorted with worry at the words "fuck" and "enemy".

---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Home Invasion

The lines have officially been blurred.

More specifically, the demarcations are no longer valid.

What's once the bedroom, what's once the kitchen, what's once the balcony lounge area are no longer what they were meant for.

They've been invaded, I say to the group that Thursday evening over dinner at Old Airport Road hawker centre. 

Carl the dense one who never gets the memo is officially lost in space. 

He nods at my remark, shoves a forkful of Rojak in his mouth and nods at his dinner.

Stanley the sex bunny on the other hand, who always gets the memo -- but always issued by the Sluts Department -- dribbles his left eyebrow at my remark.

"Darling, every inch of a house -- living room, dinning room, storeroom, bathroom -- I have invaded and marked those territories with my juices. And yes, sex shouldn't be confined only to certain areas so yes, demarcations and lines shouldn't be valid," Stanley said.

Lost in the infinite, vast space that's a world of his own, Carl is beyond redemption, so he made no attempt to catch up on the conversation and instead paid intense attention to the oily char kway teow.

Stanley of course knows what I'm talking about -- the concept of working from home. 

This post is really inspired by a feature article I read in the Sunday Times last week, where people talked about why they love working from home.

I, for one, am not one of them. 

And I cannot understand why people would love working from home.

What happened to waking up in the morning, getting dressed in your tailored shirts and pants and suits and navigating the morning traffic to a beautiful office where we can spend one-quarter of our paid working hours at the pantry gossiping and getting some work done after lunch?

Very early on in my life, I had been wired to think of the home as a home.

When I was younger, I could never study at home. I always found excuses to lug my bag pack of books and laptop to MacDonalds (Tea Garden along Farrer Road is my favourite studying spot), Starbucks at Raffles Place on a Sunday morning, the viewing gallery of the then-World Trade Centre, Changi Airport, you name it.

"National Library, Bukit Timah Shopping Centre, East Coast chalet, Tan Tock Seng Hospital and a secluded car park off Dairy Farm," Stanley offered helpfully, adding "these are some of my all-time favourite memories of my outdoors list.

I was scared to ask further.

"What's happening? What are we talking about?" Carl finally wanted to know after polishing off one-third of the char kway teow.

For me, the concept of working from home had been introduced quite early on in my career. 

My boss had allowed us to do that but I have never found it productive. There were way too many distractions. There's always some cooking to be done. Or plants that needed watering. Or the TV required turning on to fill the house with some ambient noise. The bedsheets looked too inviting.

But in recent months, nearly all of us were forced to think -- and work -- out of the confinements of the box.

These days, I've rewired my life to survive this new trend.

The first half of my day would always start on a good note.

I would, as usual, wake up at 6am on weekdays. By 7am, I'd be sitting by the balcony with my black coffee, staring into the beautiful skyline and not doing anything: My precious 15 minutes of me-time before I start my day proper.

By 7.30am, I would get some work done before my morning run (either at the gym or outdoors). 

By 10am, armed with my second cup of coffee, I'd be ready for work. 

And I would really work -- throwing myself into it until lunch beckons at around 12:30pm.

Usually, I'd cook and watch Netflix during lunch until.... 2pm. 

And that's when it all goes downhill. Nothing ever gets done from 2pm on days when I am not rushing for deadlines.

Sasa my university classmate suffers the same fate as I do. 

Though her designer apartment is large enough for her to plonk her laptop anywhere to work, she finds it extremely unproductive to work from home.

We've since decided on a strategy that would optimise our productivity levels: Post-lunch, we would get out of the house for a refreshing change of environment (Sasa would go down to her condo poolside and me, the outdoor garden near the gym).

Stanley agrees that a change in environment would always boost productivity levels because, in his words, "doing it outdoors is always exciting, and I never fail to produce".

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people