the beginning of the end: last ict day 13

It's strange to think that you could work with people for 10 years and not know a thing (or the REAL thing, for that matter) about them.

No doubt the 'work' is periodic, intermittent and not thoroughly and intensively interactive but you believe that you kind of pinned that person or those persons down, in some ways.

How wrong I was.

:o(

Oftentimes, what you know is unique only to your own experience, perception or relation to that person or those persons. And how they appear or react or behave with you or in front of you or worse with or in front of YOUR clique so the notion of what they are trickles back to you.

The sort of I-know-that-you-don't-know-what-I-want-you-to-know-but-I-want-to-make-you-think-you-know-more-than-I-know business.

The Army is filled with bitches.

So what's new.

Very intriguing and thoughtful moments I've been havng these past few days. Peeking into skeleton closets. Hoarding and trading gossip like a bitchy Deep Throat. Nothing springs the lid of the dusty ol' bank vault of secrets easier than the good ol' End of The Road Warranty Seal. People trade information with no holds barred.

Behaviour, antics, mannerisms, actions, thought process, body language, speech. The sort of Hannibal Lecter deduction thing on a smaller scale.

Think Wisteria Lane in military fatigues and jargons.

Quid pro quo among Lecter Doctors.

Nothing, nobody, is what they seem.

;o>

On this last 2nd duty of a really long ICT journey, I'm glad the gossips have survived all these years. (And little ol' me got my aces ready too...)

They just keep getting better.

Which actually makes dreadful shift duty livelier.

What can I say.

In our hearts, we're all vultures.

the beginning of the end: last ict day 11

Everything's been a Damn.

Weather's a Damn. Humid. Sticky. Scorching. Thick. Unbearable.

Which makes duty a Damn. Okay, the company so far's been pretty cool , the food's been nice but can't say the same for my location this year (and my farewell one some more). Not forgetting the damned assholes we encounter in the Base.

Not forgetting weekends being Damned. So I missed out on the Runway Cycling which would have been a mass orgy anyway but I won't be able to snap some otherwise sensitive and prohibited shots (nothing RA mind you) - damn.

At home, the monitor's a Damn. Over 10 years (I think) and suddenly shouting in black and yellow lines and dashing like a million manic ants. More hundred smackers to be damned for a new one.

Physique's a Damn. Drained and fatigued and restless.

Which makes sleeping a Damn - you're so tired you can't sleep.

Compounded by depleting source of that damned important M fluid.

Such a cheery Sunday morn.

I'm late for afternoon duty already.

Damn.

the beginning of the end: last ict day 01

It was jejune, to say the least.

No fanfare, no fireworks, no trepidation, no champagne, no go-go girls, neither eagerness nor excitement waiting to pop out around the corner on my 10th year ICT.

The first day of my purportedly last cycle (I hope so, cos I deferred once but did a make-up for it so those idiots had jolly well tally my hi-keys diligently or else...) should have been a much anticpated affair among most reservisters.

Zilch. Nada. Rien.

Ok so maybe except the Runway Cycling Open-house Day on Sunday, 12 June. ('Cycle on our last cycle' - how corny. Lots of crowd. Lots of rules. Lots of duty. Damn.)

And to top it off, me and Niel arrived FASHIONABLY late - 1 and half hours after the official clock-in. All eyes on us, even the veteran latecomer exclaimed our tardy entry.

Just to spite them, I took a huge bite off my apple to thumb in their faces as we waltzed in.

No familiar officers, just a paltry fingerful of chummy sergeants. Even less of those faces I really want to see and meet and catch up.

Siiigh... things ain't what they were before or used to be. Before, each ICT was a companyful of noise and nonsense and nattering. Now for the past 3-4 years it's just 2/3 of a platoon worth of lethargy and listlessness.

We still had our 3-hour lunches. We still snuck out. We still had to content with stupidly scheduled training programmes. We still drank a lot at the Mess. We still have to 'stand gate' (in Paya Lebar patois).

Some are dating - finally. Some got married - about time. Some divorced - already. A handful have children - and still having them so they're obviously hard at bedwork.

We talk about anything, everything, nothing. Wherever and whenever we are, sitting or standing or dying. That's something I gathered: we hone the art of talk in our lines of duty (all puns intended).

Nothing much has changed; much have been changing.

floury prose

In my many quotidian past lives I must have been a noodle slut.

How else to explain my perpetual penchant for noodles, pasta, phat thai, ramen, fried Hokkien prawn mee (the light and slightly wet type with bee hoon and morsels of sotong and absolutely NOOO chilli thank you), prawn mee (the soupy and dry types with huge whole prawns – I just HATE those bloody stall owners who halve their pathetic coin-sized shrimps – and the super toxic but deathly delicious and faint blood-coloured soup AND not forgetting the tender lean meat on bones the size of my wrist), chicken feet noodles, wanton (indeed) noodles, fried dumpling noodles, fishball noodles, bak chor mee, lor mee, ban mian (handmade) noodles, lamb noodles ARRRRRGH stopitalready.

*trying hard to breathe, calm down and dissolve devilishly desirable dishes*

*think gory wounds, dog poo and George Bush*

It must be the take-away chicken feet and mushroom noodles I had for lunch today – that fantabulous juice sloshing on the tongue… stopitalreadygetagrip.

So bloody al dente and aromatic the noodles. Such a religious feeling. Yup, church ain’t the only place to feel it.

Noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner? I’ll chant to that!

Perhaps it has to do with my mum gorging herself silly on bee hoon and noodles when she was carrying me as a foetal beanpole.

(Okay okay, so my figure resembles a string of noodle. Adds a bit of that hmm-I-see but that’s besides the point.)

Whatever it is, I can’t get enough of ’em.

But that don’t mean I’ll eat them EVERYDAY though.

I’m noodle crazy but I’m not THAT noodle crazy.

Ock, Ming and Gen swear they can live on Hainanese chicken rice EVERY MEAL, EVERYDAY *grimace and puke* but no way not me man…

Too much of a good thing doesn’t compute in their brains, apparently.

I can’t recall a day when I hated or got bored of noodles. I was just born with the love I guess. But in moderation.

For me, there’s nothing more seductive than seeing a steaming hot bowl or plate of languidly and invitingly artsy-messy noodles topped with fresh carefully laid meat and veggies and sprinkled with herbs and other ingredients and absolutely NOOO chilli thank you.

Every other day in my getting-rather-distant-working life, I would look forward to linguini with carbonara sauce and garlic, an absolute favourite from Pasta Fresca. Neapolitan is tangy and nice but a tad too citric for my jello bowels.

Or phat thai – introduced by Gen and eternally grateful for it – from the stall manned by the 2 friendly Thai ladies at Meridien Food Court. My cuisine quirk when eating it would be to slosh a sinful helping of sugar guiltlessly on top of the pile, topped with parsley and NOOO chilli thank you.

Or the world’s most expensive but soothing prawn mee where the soup comes sweet, plentiful, fragrant, concentrated and hot at the pre-renovated Hyatt café where I would splurge some comfort food money after busting my breath and health OT-ing to ungodly hours for slave driving ex-bosses.

Much as I want to lob off their heads, I’d never dare such the brain juices of the prawn heads. DIS-gust-ting lah.

While Ock finds noodles a bloody turnoff (mention ‘soupy noodles’ and he turns testy; every time I grin, twitch my eye and say ‘ban mian’ he becomes ballistically eloquent like Quentin Tarantino in Reservoir Dogs), Ari swears by handmade noodles cos she finds them filling and value for money.

That sense of fillingness is one point. But I also prefer the chewiness of well cooked thin noodles that is just right and feels so damn nice and good between the teeth. Cannot be too mush or hard crunch. No, I’m not fussy – I like Maggi instant noodles plain or with other stuff just as well.

And then of cos unlike the Asian food staple, noodles are fun.

Slurping on juicy endless strands of al dente pasta is one. I just loooove twirling it with a fork on a spoon – the way I learnt to eat pasta from me granddad.

Try twirling rice on a fork…

With noodles, I just feel satisfied, accomplished and happy after I'm done.

With rice, I'm like: 'Oh. It's done. Hm-mm. Whatever.'

So while we will never see the end of rice as queen (pardon the pun ;]) on the dinner table, noodles and other strands of flour have definitely wormed their way into my staple diet heart.