Barry Painful

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

That's not funny, deadpanned Humpty Dumpty who's hovering my laptop as I type this entry.

Four days ago, youngest brother Barry fell and broke his ankle which required all the king's horses and all the king's men to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Well, not exactly king's men. Housemen, more like it.

Lying beside me at Raffles Hospital is a broken Barry, wincing at every slight movement. His left foot is wrapped in a massive cast, propped up by two pillows for blood flow post-surgery.

Last Monday, Barry was out drinking with his colleagues at a dart pub just down the road from his office.

"What the heck were you guys doing, drinking on a Monday night," I wanted to know.

Despite Barry's vulnerable state, his priorities were still clear.

"Kor, can you pass me the Oreos?"

Barry's fall was quite dramatic.

He was seated on a bar stool and he habitually tucks one of his feet into the bottom rim of the stool.

But that Monday night, someone accidentally knocked Barry over and he fell backwards. 

"So, I fell but I had no time to dislodge my foot so --"

Crack.

Barry and I paused and looked at the source of interruption.

Our mum Mrs Lee smiled at us and brushed off micro bits of her cleanly halved cream cracker and said sheepishly, "I didn't mean it."

Barry, who has the attention span of a pigeon and the appetite of a boar, said with zest: "It's been a while since I've had cream crackers. Are they nice?" 

You'll have to give it to Barry -- cream crackers and all. The poor fella is in extreme pain but he's as sanguine as can be.

Barry had to undergo two surgeries and one of them sounded traumatic.

In order to fix screws and metal plates on his ankle -- which is what we would imagine a fracture repair surgery to be -- Barry's doctors must first perform what he described as a "put your bones together" surgery.

"Which makes sense right," Barry explained in between his biscuit chewing, "you'll first need to push the fragmented bones closer together."

"Please have a sip of water. Your mouth is drying and it looks like you're chewing sand," Mrs Lee said with great disapproval. 

"So the doctors will have to wrap that cast structure around my ankle."

 The cast structure that Barry was pointing at, was designed to support and put one's foot in place. Think of it as two separate metal sheets placed on both sides of one's ankle such that it envelops and traps the ankle from any movement.

The fun bit is... in order to keep these two separate metal sheets in place, there are actual screws that need to be drilled into the left and right side of that ankle.

Like any good orator, Barry paused and looked at his audience for reaction. 

I was mid-cringe but Mrs Lee -- who's been through greater storms than this -- widened her eyes and nodded eagerly. "Then, then?"

"The even more fun bit of it is, the drilling of the screws into my ankle has to be done while I'm awake. Without any form of anaethesia."

Barry paused and waited for an expected gasp. Which I readily delivered.

Mrs Lee -- who grew up during WWII, survived the premature death of her first love (our father) and who had undergone sexual discrimination in a male-dominated work environment to rise the ranks in her career -- rolled her eyes at me.

And at Barry, she gave him another look that's meant to say "is that all you've got?"

Mrs Lee is the type of audience you don't want at your first standup comedy show.

Barry, who could argue fiercely in court but is useless in the presence of Mrs Lee, began to fumble, his great showmanship now at stake.

"In the end, the doctors gave me some sedative so that I can still describe to them the pain I felt, which would guide them in that cast-insertion surgery.

By the end of Barry's speech, Mrs Lee was rummaging through the huge plastic bag of snacks which Barry's friends had brought over.

"You have very good friends," Mrs Lee said, inspecting the snacks one by one.

Barry then focused on me 'cos unlike our mum, I was pale.

That made Barry smile devilishly. "Quite a story eh?" he said.

Leave it to Mrs Lee to burst Barry's bubble.

"For someone who's stupid drinking ways got him injured, you've got some nerve ya."

Barry texted me privately after we left.

"I'm changing you to be my first next of kin. I'm terrified of that woman."

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

The Overseas Wedding

Sunday dinner at my partner J's.

And it was a crowded affair.

His dining table that's meant for four on most days, is filled with food that can feed 12 hungry people though only his closest family members were gathered at his place.

And that's the real treat for J.

His parents, retired government servants from Jakarta, shuttle between Indonesia, Singapore and Australia in their free time.

This month, the entire clan descended on our sunny island.

So joining J's second brother and his wife -- both of whom have since renounced their Indonesian citizenship and have pledged loyalty to our democratic society, based on justice and equality -- were his parents and his eldest brother who is an Australian citizen.

With all of J's family gatherings, home-cooked food is a must. 

The matron, who is also Peranakan, had singlehandedly whipped up family favourites: Chap chye, babi pongteh, black-ink squid with lemongrass, and 30 sticks of pork satay, courtesy of Lily our sister in law.

It was one of J's mum's favourite things to do. Host parties, feed people, have a great time.

Arguably, that's also my sex bunny friend Stanley's favourite thing to do. Host parties (of a certain type) feed people (provided it's consensual), have a great time.

But let's not go there. 

It's a heartwarming scene unfolding in front of my eyes right now, with too much cackling going on. 

It's the start of their month-long celebrations. J's parents, residing in Melbourne with his oldest brother, flew in earlier this week. 

The idea was for the entire clan to fly to Jakarta to attend a family wedding: The Holy Matrimony of Ignatius Soewarno and a certain daughter of a certain influential tycoon in Surabaya who apparently owns a chain of profit-making businesses.

And I'm feeling very warm and fuzzy.

You see, recently, my elder sis also announced she was proposed to. 

She may be 48, but she can easily pass off as a 32-year-old bride, I kid you not. 

To me, this wedding trip of J's family is a rehearsal for my own family's marriage prep work. 

Ours wouldn't be so complicated though. Both the would-be wedding of Sis and Eddie, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, won't involve family flights.

J's though, oh, it's a major project.

Families like J's where everyone is all over the world takes massive coordination. 

From New Zealand and Australia to Singapore and other parts of Indonesia, there'll be mass migration movement of the Soewarnos and the girl's family whose identities shall remain nameless here.

On paper, the plan is simple.

J's entire family comes to Singapore for a few days of quality time (including tonight) and then fly off to join the rest of the clan.

Flights have been confirmed. Hotel rooms, mass-booked two months ahead of time.

All I need to do, according to J, is to turn up for events when I'm needed to turn up as his Plus One.

And it would be celebrations that last for a week.

There's the family-only gathering of J's nephew. J warned me. That's gonna take two days. Everyone -- from the elders to the little ones -- would squeeze into one of their family mansions and the women will gather to cook for that grand gathering.

And then, there's the wedding mass on Friday for family and very close friends, followed by a reception which, as bewildering as it sounds, involves only drinks and nibblies with no sit-down table arrangements. 

And then, on the day of the actual wedding that involves one and sundry, we were to gather at the venue and party. 

J may not be the party type, but he's a family man.

And if the family event calls for him to party, then party he would.

I told sex bunny friend Stanley the plans.

"Sounds very tiring," he said.

"Right?" I sighed.

"I'm already imagining how, if I were there, I would slot in hookups amid this very packed schedule."

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

She Said Yes

Last week, my elder sis messaged my brother and me and our oldest sis -- who's living in Australia -- in our sibling group chat titled "The Little Lees" and made an announcement that would move share prices. 

Younger brother Barry responded with a group video call without delay. Only oldest Sis Jo didn't pick up (she goes to sleep on Do Not Disturb mode).

"What are you eating again? It's 12:15am," my sis S complained. 

"That should be the least of your worries," I interrupted.

Barry nodded zestfully since his mouth was full.

When he swallowed, he shouted. "WOW!"

Sis smiled then giggled like she was drunk after Prom Night. 

After nearly 50 years of being a single woman (with a tumultuous dating history filled mainly with assholes and a few good men), my sis was finally proposed to.

The man is someone slightly younger but to be honest, they both look good together.

"I don't know if that's a good thing," Stanley, who knows my family well, said when I broke the news to him later.

It must mean that the man looks super old, he said, reminding me that my sis is nearly 50 (though she can definitely pass off as someone in her mid-thirties thanks to good genes).

"But Mainly Assholes and a Few Good Men sounds like a great title for my biography," my sex bunny friend said, adding "will you write it for me in future?"

And so, during one of our regular family gatherings that Saturday -- this time at Tanglin Club -- my sis broke the news to the family.

Her exact words came out without warning. "I'm getting married," she said.

Mrs Lee, ever the dramatic matriarch, set her chopsticks down and covered her mouth with her wrinkly hands in slow motion, eyes fast filling with tears.

Barry leaned over and asked "Why? The congee too spicy is it?"

Mrs Lee hit Barry away and started weeping silently into her hands.

"Orrh.... see what you did! You made mummy cry," I chimed in as I helped myself to a steaming, fluffy piece of Char Siew Pao.

Mrs Lee let out a wail which she failed to control.

A table away, a group of rowdy businessmen uncles stopped toasting one another beer and turned to look at our sobbing mum instead. One of them looked at me quizically and jerked his head upwards which I interpreted as an inquiry that meant "What did your mum eat to make her this upset?"

At a corner, another table of elegant socialite-aunty types -- complete with pearl necklaces and bird-nest hairstyles -- kept stealing secret glances at us while trying to look classy and not busybodies.

My sis, unable to stand the attention, whispered urgently: "Mummy, please stop this right this moment."

Mrs Lee let out another wail, this time, not even controlling her emotions nor volume.

Barry asked "do you think I can be excused from this table and continue eating with those uncles there?"

Sis shot him a look that Barry immediately understood that any movement from him would get him disowned and possibly disembodied.

With impeccable timing, the Tang Yun matron whom The Little Lees nickname Mamasan, strolled over and casually placed her hand over our mum and said "Aiyah, Lei Tai, mat yeh zeng dou lei gom gek dong ah? (Aiyah, Mrs Lee, what's making you so emotional?)

The emotional Mrs Lee pointed at Sis.

Sis looked at Barry and asked: "You wanted to join that table of uncles, you said?"

I took a sip of tea to wash down my second steamy, fluffy Char Siew Pao.

Sometimes, I'm amused at my own family.

One simple message, but it can take a whole 7 mins (I counted) to announce it and even then, it's not over.

To be fair, my sis' announcement does deserve to be celebrated given that she'd been dating this man whom not only she, but also all of us loved.

Tang Yun Mamasan, upon hearing the good news, joined Mrs Lee in Emo Land and started clapping, all the while saying "congratulations, congratulations, congratulations!"

Sis was mortified. This is a PR disaster and she regretted her actions on many levels.

By then, it was too late. Mamasan had help spread the word to the other servers who, over the years, have taken a liking to our dramatic mum for some reason.

One by one, elderly staff of the Chinese restaurant came over and congratulated Mrs Lee and Ms Lee as if suddenly Tang Yun had become the wedding dinner there and then.

The group of uncles collectively toasted our table. Barry raised his Chinese tea cup at them enthusiastically.

The classy tai-tais nodded in approval at our table.

My sis wanted the day to end but was very moved by everyone's gestures.

Finally, Mrs Lee spoke.

"Does Eddie know?" she asked, concerned. 

Barry burst out laughing, his Chinese tea spewing into the air through his mouth. 

I slow-clapped at Mrs Lee's spot-on humour.

Even Eddie, our soon-to-be brother-in-law who was watching the Lee drama unfold for the past 10 minutes couldn't help himself, and broke into a throaty peal of merry laughter. 

Sis was not amused. 

It was an afternoon of emotional rollercoaster ride and I think our table -- no, sorry, our mum Mrs Lee -- singlehandedly raised the raucous energy in that classy Chinese restaurant. 

What followed Sis' announcement was a series of follow-up questions.

Where and when being key.

Eddie and Sis took turns to explain that they're still looking for a place. I knew Mum would secretly want a Chinese-style wedding but knowing Sis, she's the opposite.

But it was happy news nevertheless.

There would be lots to do for the couple, for the family, and of course, Mrs Lee.

She would naturally be excited. This was the first matrimonial event of the Lees, not counting our mum's own marriage. 

Mrs Lee began texting in various of her group chats to spread the word.

"I"m texting the extended family first," she said, as she left a voice message in her "Fami-LEE" group made up of all our aunties and uncles.

"That's not a text, Mummy," Barry pointed out. "That's a voice message. And might I suggest you rename that group to ElderLEES."

Mrs Lee had no time for Barry's joke. Waving him away, she left another voice message in another group chat. I haven't seen our mum so animated in a while.

As Tang Yun Mamasan brought over free desserts on the house to mark this very joyous occasion, I looked from my mum to Barry, and Sis and Eddie, and felt a nice, fuzzy feeling in my tummy.

At last, Sis and Eddie are a step closer to getting married.

Just then, the table of Tai Tais walked past us. A woman who wore her hair that must be fashioned after the late-Queen of England, smiled at our table and meekly said, "Congratulations."

Sis and Eddie, both holding hands under the table, smiled and looked at each other.

That Saturday, my life felt very complete.

 

 

 

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

House Viewing

House viewing ought to be fun.

The boys -- Stanley my sex bunny friend, Carl the dense one -- and I would always make house viewing a grand event. 

But when it's my unit that's up for scrutiny, up for judgement, and eventually, up for grabs, it suddenly isn't that fun.

"House viewing is fun, full stop," Stanley stated for the record, taking on the role of maitre' d as he poured a Chateauneuf-du-Pape into my cheap decantor, the action making gurgling sounds that filled my almost empty apartment.

Carl the dense one, who is blessed with an innocent's child's mind, clapped upon hearing the word fun.

"House viewing is a great gateway for sex or to meet eligible men," continued Stanley whose mind is far from that of an innocent child.

"Seize every opportunity, Adam," Stanley said like a demanding mother, stressing the word seize. 

Carl instinctively crossed his legs for further protection. 

"Think about it. Even with Grindr, you're not going to see such a large flow of men through your doors. And the ones who can afford to view your unit are obviously not poor," said Stanley. 

If Stanley had antennas attached to his head, right now,they'd be rod hard stiff and giving off alarming flashes of red. 

"What exactly are we talking about, Stan?" I asked, annoyed.

"Yes, what exactly are we talking about, Stan?" Carl parroted, truly lost at this multi-dimensional conversation. 

If Carl had antennas attached to his head, they'd not have any reception at all. 

The year was 2022, two weeks plus, after my unit was put up for sale.

Already, I'd received quite a number of interested viewers.

"If only your Grindr profile were as lucrative as your PropertyGuru listing," Stanley said.

"Bitch."

Stanley had insisted we spent the evening in my place for as long as I still owned it.

Or before I was homeless, I believe was the phrase he had used. 

And wanting to maximise my home and kitchen while I still am the legal owner, I whipped up a feast.

Seafood chili pasta -- generously stewed with fat scallops, crab meat, tiger prawns and crab sticks; wok-seared wagyu steaks, a kale fruit salad with grapes, chopped mangoes, almonds, tao kae noi seaweed, tossed with cheese and olive oil. 

Stanley bought dessert -- ice cream cake. 

My partner J was in New York for a work conference so he sent love all the way from across the world. 

“I can’t believe you’re selling your house,” Carl said with a pout. 

“I want to be around when your potential buyers view your unit. There needs to be a round of QC and review of whomever buys over your unit,” Stanley said seriously. 

Dinner that evening was bitter sweet. 

I enjoyed my time thoroughly that night but there was a nagging feeling that this would be the last time I refilled everyone’s wine glasses. Or that it would be the last time that I’d walk the boys downstairs and waited till their ride came. 

The following week, I began meeting potential buyers. 

One of them was a wealthy-looking man with thin hair and a case of extremely bad body odour. 

He smelled of onions that’s left unattended in the heat for too many days. 

But he’s potentially someone who could bail me out of poverty so who am I to complain. 

And then there was a couple — non-Singaporean — who came by and took one look at my place, which was designed as a bachelor pad, and decided in my face that it wasn’t baby friendly. 

Days later, an older gay man (at least that’s what I thought), viewed my home and was extremely impressed with what I did with it: The 2-metre long table capable of hosting the Last Supper if Jesus decided to do so, my bright and airy decor that consisted of plants, and even my cosy balcony that featured both a bar table and stool as well low tables and chairs for post-dinner dessert. 

But in the end, it was an old aunty who bought my unit. 

I learnt later that she had bought it for her young daughter who was still in university. 

Oh how unfair life can be. 

But still, it was this rich and generous old aunty who eventually bought my unit. 

When the day came, the break up felt extremely painful. 

The boys had come to help me pack. 

J had, by then, returned from the US and stayed a few nights with me while I packed my belongings and nursed a slow, eventual closure with my apartment. 

My first apartment — the first property I had owned — had come to a close. 

When the day came for me to hand over my keys in exchange for a fat cheque (and a lifeline out of my ridiculous mortgage), I finally cried privately, into the shoulders of J. 

He patted me gently and said nothing. 

“It’s ok,” he said after what felt like half an hour of rearing. 

“You’ll have a new chapter ahead.”

“House hunting — even if you’re renting — can be fun,” he said. 

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

Bring Us To The Test

As a student, I have always aced my tests and exams.

But this is one that I can't study for no matter how much I wish I could excel in it.

Full body, medical exam.

In keeping with my plans to prepare for retirement and to pave the way for good-quality-of-life in my golden years, I had dragged my partner J with me to undergo medical tests together. 

I had found a medical centre -- Pulse, located near Singapore's gay bars -- which, apart from providing sexual health consultation, also does medical screenings.

Pulse has branches in other cities including Bangkok and Hong Kong and they cater to, among others, the LGBT community. 

Why not kill two birds with one stone, I thought, hoping that I can support such initiatives while gaining from it.

And so that Saturday morning, my partner and I headed for the clinic.

We immediately felt at ease, knowing that this is an extremely welcoming environment. 

We were allowed to both enter the consultation room together where our ECGs,  blood tests and prostate exams were taken one after another by the doctor.

That immediately got Stanley my sex bunny friend's attention. 

"That's extremely kinky," he said, looking up from his phone. "Watching your partner being probed by a doctor. I watched a movie clip with that exact storyline on PornHub."

Carl the dense one looked worried. "I never thought J had such fantasies. You're okay with that?" he asked with great concern, going completely off track. 

"How was your prostate test experience," he asked, reaching for some nuts (actual nuts) across the table.

Carl shrank and cringed. 

Stanley shot him an accusatory look and said "really? You're spooked by a prostate test? You? Really?"

With timing that can only be planned only by the Divine with a great sense of humour, a scrawny aunty in her 50s who looked like she's one of the Mormon sister wives with her bangs and bob cut, set our meat dish and gave Stanley a disapproving look.

Not one to back down, Stanley looked at her and said "Ooo, I love my meat. Do you, aunty?"

Carl shrank and cringed even further. 

J dispelled the tension by portioning the meat, placing the fatty char siew, dripping in viscous sweet sauce, on everyone's plates.

J and I decided to meet the boys at Yan Palace (Chinatown), after our medical checkup near Tanjong Pagar.

"So, how was your test?" Stanley asked, persistent for an answer. 

J shrugged and said "the doctor will email us the results." 

"Was the doctor cute?" Stanley asked just as Mormon sister wife aunty placed a plate of fried noodles on our table. 

Carl shrank no further. He leaned forward, eager to know if the doctor who had "fingered me and then J" (Stanley's words) was cute or not. 

J laughed and did something more productive: Serve everyone a portion of the newly-arrived noodles. 

As our 8 dishes arrived and dinner as well as proper eating got under way, Stanley said in all seriousness.

"I actually freak out at medical exams, you know. I mean, sometimes, ignorance is bliss."

Carl the dense one nodded vehemently at that comment. 

It's true. 

I mean, if cancer cells were forming in my body discreetly, do I want to know? 

Carl was the first to answer.

"I would... but only if there's a huge chance of survival at the point of knowing. If I find out at Stage 4 where nothing can be done, then I'd rather just live ignorantly and enjoy my remaining years," said Carl who's key principle in life is exactly that.

I looked to Stanley for his answer.

Setting his chopsticks down, he pondered. 

"I fear death, actually. But I fear the uncertainty even more," he said thoughtfully.

"Death is certain. So we don't think too much about that. What's uncertain," he said, looking all three of us in the eye, "is the permutation of possibilities that can kill you."

"A car accident. Choking on this chicken feet. Being crushed by a falling printer or fridge."

"Stan, now you're just reciting the plot of Final Destination," I said. 

But Stanley does indeed have a point.

The aim of a medical check up is to hopefully pick out something in time for us to stop it from manifesting to the point that it kills us. 

But what if, as Carl said, we find out we have only three months to live? 

As we grow older, the certainty of death becomes even clearer.

In my younger days, I would never think twice about hopping on to a rollercoaster ride.

Now, I'd tell myself I have safer things to do in life. 

Leave it to Stanley to quell the cloud of morbidity that's hovering Table 14 of Yan Palace.

He waited for Mormon sister wife to approach our table with a teapot before saying: 

"So, this doctor at this gay clinic who puts his fingers into the assholes of men to feel it all around... he's a good doctor right?"

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

Doing Adult Things

The older we get, the less time we have in this world to do the things that need to be done, I announced to the boys the other day.

Carl the dense one looked at me, clueless. 

Stanley frowned in my direction and asked if I had gone slightly stupid.

"That sentence of yours is a waste. A waste of your breath, a waste of our time, a waste of words. They don't say anything at all," said Stanley who's the toughest boss to please in the whole wide world. 

Carl, who's usually on the receiving end of such comments, immediately switched sides and nodded accusingly at me. "Exactly, Adam," said Carl, who, if he were born during World War II, would no doubt be an easy traitor with loose allegiance. 

"It's like saying stupid things such as I may or may not know," Stanley continued, stoked by Carl who was huffing up his chest like a bouncer and agreeing vehemently in the background.

I'm glad to see Carl, for once, enjoying himself in a conversation without being a victim of his own denseness. 

But back to my point. 

At 45, we are morbidly nearing our death. 

And if we don't do anything about it -- such as prudent planning for health checks and retirement plans -- we might just have to brace ourselves for a slow and uncertain journey towards death.

Carl tried to register my words to the best of his ability but he simply couldn't grasp the impact I wanted to create.

Stanley, to his credit, let his defensive guard down and said "Okay, actually, I know what you're saying."

On cue, Carl's python-size biceps deflated and he nodded understandingly, agreeing with Stanley.  

The three of us were, for a change, meeting for supper.

It was something we used to do when we were in our 30s -- when we had more energy than we do now.

But we also once in a while enjoy doing something spontaneous so when Carl texted in the group chat suggesting supper at Swee Choon, we both readily said yes.

"I think we have singlehandedly pulled down the average age of the patrons here," Carl said with a pout, glancing around the eatery, filled with university-going students or patrons who looked like they were either in National Service or have just embarked on their first careers.

Stanley wasn't having any of it. All he wanted to pull down, in the eatery filled with young, strapping patrons, wasn't the average age. 

But our supper at Swee Choon was a painful reminder that we are ageing.

Once upon a time, we would blend in with the late-night Swee Choon crowd not only because we were young, but also because we still had energy at 12.30am.

At this moment, Carl looked like he was fighting off the effect of sleeping pills, while Stanley stared into his Chinese tea, asking dreadfully where our food was.

"How did we get so old so fast," Stanley said, defeated.

Which brings me back to my point.

We are old. And we will get older, I said to the group, at the risk of being called out for, again, making sweeping statements that have no actual value.

But it's a fact, and it's a fact I choose to handle with the precision of an adult.

You see, when we first started work and earning money in our first job, one of the things that was drilled in me, was to start being financially prudent (Stanley would say that one of the things that was drilled in him during that youthful period was something else altogether).

And so, with my then-meagre salary, I loaded up on insurance protection, started regular savings and the occasional investment projects whenever I had a bonus. 

Along the way, we acquired other things that our increasing pay check allowed us: Cars, apartments, luxury items.

But now... now is the time to look at retirement planning.

In fact, it's a bit too late at 45. 

But better late than never.

At our age, the topics of our generation should revolve around planning for retirement, writing wills, assigning Lasting Power of Attorneys and scheduling yearly health checkups. 

There's so much on my mind that my to-do list is full.

Stanley agreed, though his to-do list, which is also full, consists not of agenda but names of men. 

Carl looked bored with our topic. He's either in a state of cluelessness or denial so he focused on flexing his biceps which look to be the biggest in the whole of Swee Choon.

Indeed, these are tasks we have to do at our age -- especially while we still have earning power. 

We don't want to look back at 70, wishing we had put in more money into our CPF or have bought more investment plans so that we could have a better lifestyle.

Nor do we want to suddenly find ourselves suffering from an illness that renders us useless and have to depend on the state to make decisions for us, instead of our chosen loved ones whom we appointed as LPAs during our sensible, younger days. 

Carl withdrew further from this conversation and began working on his deep fried mee sua, a Swee Choon signature. 

A week later, Stanley texted. 

"I'm making you my donee," he said, taking our conversation that night seriously.

It was a good first step for Stanley. 

That we are taking on ageing not with denial or inaction, but with concrete steps to be on top of our ageing game.

Stanley agrees.

Even when he's old, he wants to be on top of things. Hopefully, sweet young things. 

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

Date Night

Once in a while, we do it.

Twenty-two loving years together, my partner J and I still make time for date nights, just the two of us.

While we are not like many straight couples who're burdened with kids and can never find time for romance, J and I are both extremely busy professionals who devote too much time to our work.

But we also know we can't take our love for granted.

Amid our long working hours, J would always initiate date nights.

And so, that day, J took a day off from his firm to match my forced leave day. 

Our plan was simple: Meet for brunch and spend the entire day (and night) together. 

At this point, I must warn you -- this piece you're about to read will read like it's a journal entry written by a 16 year old who's newly in love.

It's nothing but a simple recount piece. 

But one that's recounted with love.

That Friday morning, we met at Suntec City for brunch.

J, who was always early, scouted the perfect place for our meal. A restaurant that ran a promotion for a $14 set lunch comprising an appetiser and main course.

I went on to order just that, plus wine that cost us more than our set lunch.

It was a wonderful day. 

We had an unhurried meal -- not the type where I was distracted by chewing my food and reading work documents at the same time.

And J had plans.

"We can either watch a movie, or be tourists and get on the topless bus tour around Singapore," J said with that impish smile which I had first fallen in love with in 2002. 

"Topless tour," I said. "That sounds promising."

J rolled his eyes and asked Stanley to get out of my body.

"Ew," I said. "You know what that sounds like?!"

It was a wonderful plan, the one J had tried to design.

But we followed neither of it.

After lunch, we spent two hours strolling around Suntec City, paying particular attention to furniture shops, imaging our future together in my soon-to-be-bought HDB flat. 

And by the time we reached the theatres at Suntec City to see what's available to watch, we had missed all sensible showtimes.

The old Adam would be very upset but at 45, the Adam now has toned down.

And so, J and I gave up movie plans.

When I asked if we should play tourists and hop on the topless bus, J shrugged and said, let's just enjoy walking around aimlessly.

Forty five minutes later, we found ourselves at Shake Shack where J was intrigued by the fast food chain's local mikshake: Pandan with gula melaka and coconut bits.

It was a cup in heaven -- cos that's where good people with diabetes would end up.

The two of us took turns to suck up the sweet shake like two love birds who skipped class to go on a date at a cheap fast food joint. 

Years ago, I would be anxious if my date with J had no direction.

Age has certainly mellowed me and I have learnt to go with the flow -- something J always taught me to do.

By 5pm, we found ourselves with other tourists outside the Esplanade, taking in the breathtaking view that is Singapore's skyline.

From the corner of my eye, I saw an alfresco restaurant and said to J "let's have dinner there!"

J shrugged. A shrug that said why not and we both found ourselves on the rooftop dining area of Supply and Demand, a restaurant with relatively good food.

I say relatively good food 'cos I simply can't remember how the food tasted.

All I could remember was J and I sitting on the edge of the alfresco restaurant, looking at each other and feeling calm, blissful and loved.

Our order of scallops, pasta and kurobuta pork (with pinot grigio) took us two hours to finish, and by the time we were done with dinner, day had become night.  

And it was the perfect dinner, the perfect day, the perfect date.

As J and I strolled along the Singapore River, staring into the wobbly reflection of the skyline, my pinkie hooked his.

J looked at me with an expression that said what?

I smiled back at him, with an expression that said the three words that no longer need to be said after 22 years.

 

 

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