All Talk, No Accent

I saw a couple near my home the other day. 

One angmoh man, one Asian woman.

The woman may or may not be an SPG.

And she may or may not be speaking in a distinct Western accent.

The key word here, is distinct because what came out of her mouth was definitely an angmoh accent.

British, in fact. Mainly.

The intonation and even the choice of words were designed to sound like sentences that might come out of the Queen's mouth.

"That's pretty wicked," the Asian woman had said.

The problem is, Ms Asian Who Spouts British Accent had said the word "pretty" like an American, softening the 't's such that it sounds more like priddy instead of prittee. 

I may sound priddy judgemental but I'm definitely sure Ms Asian is putting on an accent.

I really shouldn't be bothered by something so trivial but fake accents has always been my pet peeve. 

It's not so much that I cannot accept people who speak with accents.

I can. If it's natural.

My partner of 20 years J for instance.

Despite having converted to be a proud pink-IC-carrying citizen, and despite having spent his education in Singapore since 11 years old, he still speaks English with an Indonesian accent. 

Perhaps, it's deeply embedded in him -- his entire family including his sister-in-law who's from Surabaya speak like that.

I strongly believe that accents are planted and cultivated very early on when we learn to speak -- and subsequent changes in accents is not natural but by choice. 

Sure, if one chooses to adapt a different accent, that's perfectly fine.

But not when the purpose is to put on a fake front because it's glamarous.

I have a friend whose mission in life is to elevate his own status and show off whatever little he can: His degree, his wealth, his love for art and just how widely-travelled he sounds when he speaks with an American accent because he studied in the US.

Said friend would try very hard to sustain his accent.

But like a heavily made up geisha who uses cheap cosmetics, as the night goes on, his accent wears off, revealing who he truly is beneath that put-on accent. Just a Singaporean boy who attends a non-elite school and sounds exactly like that.

For that friend, he ought to worry about fixing his grammar more than sticking to a fake accent.

And don't get me wrong -- I have nothing against neighbourhood schools at all.

My problem is fake accents, fake identities. 

And I'm also a bit miffed at how we Asians often tend to look up to Western accents as superior.

I always wonder: If I ordered food at a posh restaurant with Hokkien-accented English, would I be mocked by fellow diners and the smartly dressed waiters? If my presentation to my board of directors were delivered in, say, English with a Vietnamese accent, would I impress anyone? Or can I get better service on the phone if I called and sounded like I just got off the boat from somewhere?

Years ago, a Singaporean friend whom I was studying in Australia with told me that if we sounded too Singaporean, the angmohs won't understand us.

"What's more, we should blend in and sound like them!".

That bitch goes around speaking with an American accent on good days.

And while I was there, I did pick up the accent.

In fact, I'm so good with sounding Aussie that if you closed your eyes, you wouldn't expect that those words are coming out of the mouth of an Asian -- a very proud Asian who disapproves of unnecessary Western worship.

During one term break, I took a holiday at the Gold Coast.

I ordered fish and chips and when the young Aussie girl handed me my food, she leaned over and said sincerely -- but with deliberate slowness in case my Asian ears didn't catch her -- that You speak good English.

I know she wasn't being sarcastic. I swear she was earnest because that poor girl must have interacted with 500 Japanese tourists a day and none of them would speak English the way I did -- with clarity and a distinctly Singaporean accent.

But I was young and also priddy guai lan back then so I couldn't bite my tongue.

I smiled, and said with equal slowness that I learnt English from OUR coloniser.

I left that poor and sincere girl to digest my Asian sarcasm.

When my younger brother studied law in the UK and came back during school holidays, he would always speak with a crisp English accent just to irritate me, knowing full well that I'm irked.

I once told him that I will slap him across the face if he didn't stop it. 

My English-accented threat was well received.

Now that I'm more mature, I am also milder.

And when I do come across fake-accent spouters, I go right to the heart of the matter.

I keep asking them about their accent and trace the origin right back to that person's ancestral roots.

My partner J says I have nothing better to do.

"I can't understand you amid your thick Indo accent," I replied him, giving him my best Bapak accent.

 

 

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

Health is Wealth

My mother, the chatty and bossy Mrs Lee, called me recently announcing she may have the much-dreaded C word in healthcare.

She had gone for one of her regular polyclinic health checkups and while preparing for an ECG, an eagle-eyed nurse spotted a strange growth on Mrs Lee's left breast.

"Anyway, the doctor referred me to a public hospital for follow up, in case it's cancer," Mrs Lee said casually to me over the phone like it's the most common topic to bring up for a Friday evening phone call.

I was having dinner with some business associates and my mind went blank at the word "cancer".

What followed was a whirlwind of texting activities with my siblings.

Brother Barry was drowning -- his work, which has an international scope that covers Europe, kept him and his team extremely busy.

"We are fighting fire," he texted briefly.

As the bigger brother, I took matters in my own hands.

I texted my friend, who runs a private derm practice.

He had very kindly given me a slot first thing on Monday morning.

Long story short, my friend took biopsy samples from my mum's skin and in just a matter of a few days, texted me to say that the results showed no cancer.

It was such a relief for the entire family -- including Mrs Lee who pretended she was very calm with cancer growing on her breast. 

That evening, we had a family gathering -- we had each taken time off to eat with Mrs Lee.

Brother Barry and my sis, and me visibly exhausted from the weekend stress but clearly relieved. 

Over dinner, our mum revealed she had already drawn up a will and had made sure everyone gets something.

Barry, the baby of the family, fought back tears.

My sis, the eldest, made enquiries on Mrs Lee's collection of jewellery.  

That evening, our dinner at Spring Court, Chinatown, was most meaningful.

Our family gatherings have always revolved around Cantonese restaurants and Spring Court happens to be one of a few restaurants Mrs Lee approves.

That night, when I went home after a very filling dinner, I sat on my couch, processing my week.

We had been on a rollercoaster ride -- from the discovery of a potential health problem to living the healthscare over the weekend and discussing plans and backup plans among the family, to holding our breaths at the biopsy tests.

That night, for the first time in days, I slept well. 

Here's wishing all my readers and their loved ones good health.

 

 

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

Get it Over and Done with

"Everyone and his grandmother are getting it, except me," Stanley said as he set a huge, transparent bowl of tossed salad on his dining table.

I couldn't tell from his tone if he was extremely proud of not getting it, or extremely left out for not getting it.

Also not getting it is our dense friend Carl who had just finished chewing at his sixth fingernail and had paused to get with the programme.

"What are we talking about?" he asked with a hopeful grin on his face, ever optimistic that there'll always be that one kind soul in his life who'd help point him in the right direction when he's lost in a shopping centre.

Stanley looked at Carl and asked "where have all the nails you'd been biting off gone to?"

Carl beamed even brighter as if an adult had just praised him for brushing his teeth at night.

Stanley backed away slowly and returned to his open-concept kitchen to fetch that afternoon's main meal of aglio olio.

Stanley started with a dramatic sigh as we picked up our fork and got ready to dig in.

"I really don't get it," Stanley said.

Carl shook his head on cue. "Yeah Stan. You me both," he said with meaning.

"I mean, everyone we know is getting COVID... it must really either mean we're extremely careful and blessed or simply that we don't have enough friends to mingle with!"

Carl's eyes lit up. "Oh, so that's what it is!"

Stanley and I gave him a side glance and waited. "It's anchovies. No wonder it tastes so familiar," concluded Carl who is in his own world.

Back in our real world, Stanley and I are facing real issues.

My sister, my partner J's parents and his brother are down with COVID.

Stanley's aunty and two of his friends are down with COVID.

A sizeable portion of the Singapore population are all getting COVID, Stanley says, and this shit is real 'cos now your loved ones have it, according to Stanley.

Indeed, it's worrying and not worrying at the same time.

While we know that vaccinations can offer extra layers of protection, your loved ones' health are at stake here.

I first got wind of my sister's condition two weeks ago. 

She casually texted me her positive results.

My sister, who recently got attached, still lives alone in her huge, gorgeous apartment designed for magazine covers. She now has to make sure it's also designed for quarantines. 

I don't worry very much for her because she is a health nut and takes very good care of her body.

The only concern is whether she'd be eating well because she's complained of extreme fatigue and loss of appetite.

"It's too painful to swallow 'cos of her extremely sore throat," I explained to Stanley and Carl who nodded approvingly at his aglio olio. 

To his credit, Stanley didn't take the bait to turn that into a sex joke. 

Because COVID is no joke.

Granted, it's not as serious now, but you still can't help but worry.

My sis had been too tired to talk on the phone and even texting, she says, is taxing. 

She didn't eat in her first few days of home treatment but on the fourth day, she managed to whip up an Instagram-worthy plate of aglio olio.

I can only imagine how much tougher it is for the older folks.

J's parents are both retired civil servants who should be enjoying their fruits of their labour by travelling the world, and visiting J's siblings and cousins scattered all over the world.

Instead, they're now holed up in their homes spitting phlegm every 10 minutes.

The last time I spoke to J's mum she sounded like she had swallowed enough nails to puncture her voice box.

But two years into this pandemic, the world has come to slowly adjust itself and move on.

Globally, some borders are reopening. Domestically, some rules are changing. All this, in step with adapting and progressing.

As we polished off our plates at Stanley's that afternoon, we concluded that as long as we're vaccinated, getting COVID should be seen as just another flu episode.

"Nothing to worry about as long as precautions are taken," Stanley said wisely. 

Carl nodded peacefully on Stanley's couch. 

Here's wishing everyone a speedy recovery -- or future speedy recovery -- from COVID.

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

A Tooth for a Tooth

I am writing this with a tinge of anger.

Actually, no.

Make that a tsunami of anger.

Recently, my partner J told me something that made my jaw drop.

J had lost a tooth because our regular - but apparently incompetent dentist - had failed to prevent a crack in his tooth from worsening.

It all began last year when J complained of a toothache.

I had accompanied J to visit Dr C, whom we'd been going to for the last 10 years.

We would go for the usual - cleaning and maintaining our teeth.

During our visit then, Dr C said he couldn't find anything wrong with J's tooth.

No crack, no decay, nothing.

So of course we trusted him.

Weeks later, J felt a very sharp pain while having dinner.

He immediately made an appointment with Dr C the next day.

Turns out, the very tooth which Dr C had dismissed as having "nothing wrong" had cracked right down to its root.

It had to be extracted because there was no way the tooth could be salvaged.

I posted this shocking piece of news in our group chat with the boys - Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one.

Stanley was indignant.

"WHAT?!" he wrote.

Carl the dense one, who has no idea how many teeth an adult has, replied with a series of exclamation marks.

"Will J sue?" Stanley asked.

"Oh my god, I am so angry right now," Stanley wrote all in caps.

But of course, J won't sue.

My kind-hearted J - God bless his heart (and all his remaining teeth) - had decided to not pursue the matter although he could have kicked up a fuss.

"It's just a tooth," J told me over video call the other day.

Stanley told me later that if it were up to him, he would return to that clinic and bite that bloody dentist in his ass, missing one tooth or not.

And then came Stanley's next most pressing question - was J disfigured?

Tooth be told, J wasn't, since the extracted tooth is hidden deep in his mouth and isn't visible.

Still, Stanley wasn't pleased.

And neither was I.

I was in anger.

But more importantly, my heart ached.

It pained me to know that J had lost a tooth - a perfectly fine tooth if only Dr C had exercised due diligence and called for a scan which his human eye couldn't detect.

It pained me to see J in such a health crisis I never want him to be in any sort of medical emergency.

Over the next few days, I had been googling facts about missing teeth and whether it was necessary to replace them.

All the literature I read suggested that it should be, or a slew of problems including overgrowth or invasion of teeth into that missing spot would occur.

But all J would do was to assure me that his eating and chewing weren't affected, and "it's just a tooth, dear. We'll see how."

Stanley didn't think so.

"How would your blow jobs be from now on?" my concerned sex bunny friend asked.

The supportive Stanley later told me he messaged J to offer his condolences, to which, J replied that everything is okay and that I had been the one to blow things out of proportion.

Stanley told me he wanted to reply J that "blowing" is indeed one thing he needs to think about carefully in the future, but decided to be a toothless tiger instead.

J's tooth loss got me so upset that for the next few days, all I could think of was that my lovely partner J now has one less tooth.

Of course, to put things into context, it's "just a tooth" as J had comforted me.

It could have been worse - the loss of an eye, or a limb or something.

Which got me thinking.

If J were to need a kidney transplant I would willingly give up mine.

Or if I could have my way, I would even give up years of my life so that J could live longer.

J replied me with a smiley icon when I shared those thoughts with him, and stressed for the umpteenth time that "it's just a tooth lah".

Stanley on the other hand was more appreciative.

"I love it that you're so melodramatic," he said with approval.

"And by the way," Stanley said, "as a gift to my best friend, I have hooked up my ex with your current bf."

For context, Stanley had once dated an orthodontist who brought the screwing, drilling and prodding from the dentist's chair to the dentist's bed.

Said bed was in Orchard Road, where Stanley had on more than one occasion, graced with his bodily warmth.

Anyway, the point is, Stanley and the dentist didn't work out and their whirlwind relationship ended like the fate of a decaying tooth.

The bigger point is, Stanley had actually got in touch with the dentist for J's sake, asking him if he would "do the procedure for my best friend's partner".

At that moment, I had to busk in my simple joys.

That I have a non-fussy, easy-going partner, and a gay best friend who would go all out for me and J.

"Yeah, count your blessings," Stanley wrote to me that night.

"And if you're J, the answer would be 31".

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

A Shot in Life

"I wonder who's going to lift up my clothes and poke me," Stanley the sex bunny said in excitement, unable to sit still in his plastic chair.

Carl the gym rabbit began flexing his python-sized biceps, breathing in and out forcefully as if getting ready for the Olympics 100kg Clean and Jerk category. 

Also looking like he's getting ready for the jerk category, Stanley began looking around lustfully at every male species entering Queenstown CC, where the three of us, of all things, had planned to take our booster shot together.

The three of us had once upon a very long time joked about how someday, instead of dressing up to explore gay bars or dine at the latest trendy and pretentious restaurants, would end up making medical appointments as part of our social gatherings. 

There we were, three Uncles advancing into our mid-forties, living out our future.

Meanwhile, Stanley was advancing towards an early-thirties, his eyes zeroing in on a well-groomed man wearing an army singlet.

"Attention all units, attention all units, 3-o'clock, 3-o'clock, over," Stanley said, no doubt trying to sound like a pilot on speaker, but ended up instead sounding like the NTUC Aunty paging for help at Counter 6.

I pretended I didn't hear Stanley and stared at my iPhone with intense focus.

Carl too didn't hear Stanley because, as usual, he was spacing out.

"3-o'clock, 3-o'clcok, over," Stanley said more urgently, no longer using an indoor voice. For effect, Stanley jerked his head and eyes in the direction of the well-groomed young man wearing the army singlet.

Carl got the signal and began fumbling, mapping out with, first his left finger and then his right finger the trajectory of an imaginary clock dial.

Carl didn't know where to look.

I didn't know where to look. It was getting embarrassing because a makcik sitting nearby began studying the three of us with keen interest. 

I won't be surprised if makcik were smiling beneath her mask. 

"Adam Lee, booth 2!"

Thank God. Saved by the belle -- a petite looking young volunteer with long, straight hair.

Inside booth 2, I met a very chirpy woman who looked about my age.

I know because she said "oh, 1979. We're same age!"

While her hands went about tearing needle packages and fixing vaccine doses smoothly like a well-seasoned factory worker, I learned that she was a nurse who retired in her early 30s after she got married.

"I quit to look after my two kids but when this pandemic happened, I told my kids 'mummy needs to go back and serve the country'," she said.

I could see it from her eyes that nursing and motherhood were both her calling because she really like  any matronly nurse, I didn't even see -- or feel -- the booster shot. 

"There!" she said again with her chirpy voice. 

"Stay safe," she said to me sincerely, her eyes scrunched up from a hidden smile. 

Indeed. "Stay safe" has become one of the most commonly heard phrases these days. 

Even with vaccinations or booster shots, danger still lurks out there.

"I always know that I no longer have gag reflex but I didn't expect that I also incapable of feeling any sensation when being poked," Stanley said to me back at the common waiting area, unwittingly helping me to prove my point about the lurking dangers out there.

I looked around to see if the makcik was still tracking our activity but instead found Carl flexing his python-sized biceps. 

"Did the needle break upon contact?" Stanley asked Carl sarcastically.

Unable to detect the tone in Stanley's voice, Carl flexed harder, happy that his friend appreciates his He-Man muscles. 

As mandated by the government, we had to wait for 30 minutes for any side effects to show up before we could leave.

Stanley made full use of the time and widened the scope of his radar eyes, ready to fantasize.

Carl was lost in his own thoughts and began nodding off, looking like he might topple over anytime and cause the young volunteers to panic.

I was soaking in the moment and reality of it.

When I first knew the boys more than 20 years ago, I would never have imagined that we would progress in life together.

Sure, I knew they would be my core group of friends but what I didn't factor in was that we would all one day grow old together.

We're on our way there.

In the last 20 years, we've gone through -- and been with one another -- so many milestones.

University graduation, our first job, Stanley's first car, our respective property buys, and everything else in between -- sharing the joys of new relationships, the tears of loved ones gone, the rare fights over the most petty of issues, and most of all, the love and assurance of people who'd be there for you.

That day, I tell myself that it won't be long that more of our social gatherings in future would involve Dettol-smelling hospital rooms... and, God forbid, that one final day, in a room filled with the cloying scents of flowers and weeping peers at one of our wakes.

As the three of us walked out of Queenstown CC that day, I put my arms around Carl and Stanley, so glad that the three of us are literally walking towards old age together.

"I never thought I'd say this," Stanley said breaking the silence.

"At this age and day in time, I would prioritise getting a booster shot over a Vodka shot or a cum shot."

 

 

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

You Gotta Move It Move It

In the Heterosexual Textbook for Couples, boy marries girl, boy and girl move in to Punggol (or Sengkang), boy and girl give birth, get highly strung, eventually grow old and fat and die.

In the Homosexual Textbook for Couples, boy meets boy, boy and boy move in to one of the old HDB estate flats (which would be renovated and decorated with style), boy and boy don't give birth, get high, eventually grow old and beefy and die. 

Carl the dense one is naturally confused with the analogy. 

"What are you studying now Adam? Why is your textbook so strange?" our slow friend asks, displaying textbook dimwittedness. 

If Carl were a textbook, his font size would as large as his python sized biceps, the pages filled with colourful illustrations meant for kids. 

Stanley my sex bunny friend is, however, quick to get the memo.

"Whichever textbook you're talking about, I suggest we go to the contents page, scroll down to look for the sex part, and dive straight into that chapter," my slut friend says, displaying textbook quick wittedness. 

If Stanley were a textbook, his font size will be as per prescribed by the publisher but one has to keep reading between the lines for constant innuendoes. And yes, Stanley's pages will be filled with way too colourful illustrations not meant for kids. 

I was having one of my brain fart moments, pondering about life in general when I messaged the boys in our WhatsApp group. 

In particular, I was thinking about J and my future. 

If the two of us were to follow the Homosexual Textbook for couples, we would by now have moved in together and done the things most gay couples do. 

When J and I first got together in 2002, moving in was part of our eventual plan. 

But we made those plans in our early 20s and we each had big dreams to fulfill first, and we agreed to work on them.

J's dream is to play real life monopoly, collecting properties to rent them out and then retire at 50. 

At 43, he's almost there -- he now has two and is planning for his third purchase. Already, he's started talking about quitting his job -- and learning a new skill just for fun -- once he is receiving two sets of rental income.

My dream was simple. To continue to be a slave to my work, and devote 100 per cent of my time to it while I'm at it. And unlike J, I don't want retire any time soon for I truly love what I do by day. 

And while I also do love what I do by night (with J), I eventually got used to living apart from J.

Which got me thinking. 

What if, in our 20-year relationship, we have grown too comfortable with our current arrangements?

What if we were too old to adapt to a life under one roof and started rocking the boat?

Stanley my sex bunny friend says I'm thinking too much, and that any rocking at our age -- whether under one roof or sheets -- can only be a good thing.

Carl the dense one says I'm studying into this situation too much and shouldn't read confusing textbooks.

But I can't help it. 

I don't think I make a good candidate to live with.

From a relatively young age, I had gotten a taste of independence and loved it greatly.

During national service, I moved from the West to the far-flung borders of Singapore because my camp was so damn remote, and for almost 2 years, I had the best time living like a happy bachelor. 

When I studied overseas, I had stayed in a good Catholic hostel just for boys, something which I enjoyed too.

I recall Stanley's numerous attempts to fly over and explore the Down Under in my good Catholic boy hostel. 

Back then, I had my own tiny, tiny, tiny room (the size of two toilet cubicles), and I truly enjoyed that living arrangement. When I was done feeling cramped up in that tiny lot, I can easily hang out with friends in the living or studying or dining areas. 

I grew to like that sort of independence where I know I have friends when I need them, and feel assured enough that I can retreat back to my private space whenever I pleased. 

In my second year, I did the unthinkable -- I moved into a huge house just slightly off campus, with a few other Singaporeans.

It was mostly enjoyable for the first few months but soon, I starting plotting various ways to poison my housemates over the tiniest things: So and so didn't do the dishes. That person didn't lift the toilet seat. There's no more bread and milk!

Perhaps the best thing out of that year was that I became closer to my roommate Eric Lum whom I later had a child with (read about my godson here).

In my final year, I moved out partly because I missed staying alone and mainly 'cos I didn't want to commit genocide on my housemates who're thankfully still alive for me to keep in touch with today. 

When I got back to Singapore, I worked towards buying my own place and soon, life living alone was good again. 

I know I love J very much and want to make a life with him together. 

But now that I'm so old and used to my own habits, I really wonder if moving in together could shake up a two-decade relationship. 

On paper, I know that there's no happily ever after in our daily lives as a couple. 

The thing about sleeping with your loved one after a night of intimacy and waking up the next day smiling at each other and sharing a kiss? That's rubbish. 

Early into my relationship with J, I have learnt that sleeping with him can be deadly: His head threatening to cut off blood supply to my arm in the middle of the night. 

J would often complain that "you no longer want to cuddle with me when we sleep" because spooning him means having to curl my spine up like a prawn and it's not exactly comfortable.

And when we wake up in the morning, we don't magically open our eyes at the same time.

J wakes up a lot earlier and would tickle me till I could wriggle and giggle no more. Okay, that part is sweet -- though I may not say the same 20 years down the road when I have arthritis or something. 

In fact, there are many things that are sweet about me and J living together. 

Though I said we lived apart, I do stay over regularly at his place for long stretches. 

During those times, we eventually established a routine. 

On weekends, J would make coffee for me in the morning, and make breakfast while I brushed my teeth. 

Or if J tickled me early enough, we'd walk to the nearby Chomp Chomp food centre for chwee kueh.

On weekdays, I would be the one who would come home later than J. 

And when I'm back, J would heat up food for me while I showered, and would sit with me at the dining table while he continued killing zombies on his phone. 

We have grown to feel comforted with each other's presence even when no words are exchanged. 

Oh, and we have come to a point where I can fart and shit in front of him while he showered without taking out the romance in our relationship.

Stanley was naturally horrified. When you're with your lover and insert things into your orifice, it can be romantic, but the moment you expel things out of your orifice when your partner is around, there is nothing romantic about it, he once said to me. 

"If he didn't break up with you when you break wind, he's a keeper," Stanley said that day, ending my brain fart moment. 

Perhaps, I think too much. 

Even though J and I aren't following the typical Homosexual Textbook For Couples, it doesn't mean we won't ace the subject. 

If we can make our own rules in our early twenties and stick to them, then surely, 20 years later, we can continue to shape our rules and stick to them?

After all, textbooks are just a guide for beginners and when it comes to real-life situations, it's how we apply knowledge and react accordingly that truly matters. 

Plus, in J's words, "We both know you don't make a good housemate. But who's to say you won't do well as my lover in our future home?"

 

 

 

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

Meeting the Family

This Chinese New Year, the most dreaded question of When Are You Getting Married shall be fielded by my sister, 46-year-old Ms Lee.

She had brought it upon herself.

And right now, it is being brought closer and closer.

The Eagle has landed, my cheeky brother Barry spoke into his wrist. 

The younger Lee is a huge fan of Hong Kong cop movies and right now, he's playing out a scene that is known only in his mind. 

"All units, standby. The Eagle has landed."

On cue, the matron of the house Mrs Lee stands up, straightens her yellow cheongsam and casually strides over to me and whispers, "how long you think this time?"

"Happy New Year mummy," my sister says as cheerfully as she can humanly manage at our doorstep, her eyes crinkling into slits above her mask. 

"This is Eric. Dear, this is my family."

Mrs Lee immediately heaves a big sigh of relieve and before Eric could remove his shoes and take out the Mandarin oranges from his mini red paper bag, our mum took Eric by his wrist and dragged him into the house.

Younger brother is equally, if not, more relieved. He started clapping, patted Eric on his shoulder, and skipped to the kitchen, before returning with a tray of Tiger Beer and Bak Kwa. 

You see, my sis has always been very secretive about her love life and even though we both are super close, she had only recently revealed she'd been dating.

She told me about her "partner" only four months prior to Chinese New Year.

To be fair, my sis has always been dating around and her relationships had never been long enough to last for two back-to-back Chinese New Years.

Over the years, she's become more careful and selective with revealing information about her boyfriends.

So about a week before Day One of Chinese New Year, my sis dropped the bombshell during a pre-CNY lunch at Asia Grand that she's bringing someone over.

My mum kicked me under the table urgently while remaining as calm as a seasoned mahjong player dealt with a good hand. 

She picked up a dim sum morsel, gently dipped it into the chilli sauce while her sandal continuously poked violently at my shin under the red table cloth.

I felt like I had to do something.

"Ouch," I enunciated so that the word came out as a warning

Mrs Lee turned very slowly at my direction and looked at me with extreme serenity. "Yes, son?" 

I backed down and shoved a Siew Mai in my mouth. 

During lunch, my sis shared only that much her partner and the key pieces of info were that he's an elite fire fighter, he has good built and rides a bike.

Mrs Lee later said to me "habis lah, your sister dating Melyau."

But right now, Eric is far from Melayu -- after he paid CNY greetings to my mum (in perfect Mandarin, mind you), younger brother Barry thrust a can of beer in his hand, to which Eric obliged and the two found companionship and bonded over two tin cans. 

My sister found me in the kitchen and asked me "how? What do you think?"

To be honest, Eric looks like a great catch.

Polite, simple, honest, and most importantly passionately altruistic. 

And of course, Eric is younger.

My sis has never dated anyone her age firstly because anyone her age would either be married, divorced or gay -- or weird. Secondly, my sis, though all of 46 years old, can pass off as a 30 year old spinster.

"Bachelorette," she corrects me on the spot. 

And so when she puts herself out there in the dating market, younger guys like Eric would naturally swipe right on her.

"I love that guy," Barry says as he bends down to fetch two more cans of beer. "He's telling me a lot of exciting stories about fire fighting work!"

My sis smiles, knowing that whomever she brings home to meet the family during CNY would be warmly embraced.

We had always been supportive of one another and had each other's back.

When I first brought my partner J to meet the Lees some 20 years ago, my sis and brother had been pillars to me.

They made sure J felt accepted and they kept engaging J so that he would feel welcomed in the family.

Now, it's our turn.

Though Sis always brings different guys back for CNY over the years, she can always count on Barry and me to make her partner feel welcomed and loved.

Just then, my mum came into to scoop Longan dessert from the stove.

She stared in my direction and when Sis wasn't looking, Mrs Lee mouthed the words "how long?"

To quell Mrs Lee's innate kaypoh aunty personna, I did what my sex bunny friend Stanley would do.

"I think he's a good 7 inches, if you ask me."

Mrs Lee choked on her saliva and kicked me in the shin.

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