Xmas party

So I hadn't updated on what happened that night at the boss' place. Suffice to say, I've not touched a drop of wine since that evening, for fear of disappointment!

The wine and champagne was divine; I had too much to drink and puked twice. Once in her toilet, and another time at home. But of course told NO ONE, in case they thought I was binge drinking. And even when puking I made sure to make as little noise as possible, and to put my face as closely to the toilet water surface as possible to minimise spurging sounds.

Great control had to be exercised when walking so as not to appear that I could barely walk straight (I couldn't), and also to make sure that I didn't start to hum any tune, in case I started singing at the top of my lungs to all and sundry, or start talking absolute nonsense and sprouting vulgarities; behaviour which simply wouldn't do in front of your boss, regardless of whether you're drunk or not.

The thing about drunken behaviour, I realise, is that it all depends on context. There is no one-type of drunken behaviour for each person. The context defines your behaviour, and alcohol loosens any inhibitions you may have which prevents you from assimilating into the environment. When I'm at home, I'm a sleepy drunk. When I'm in a karaoke pub, I cannot stop singing. When I'm with friends whose company I enjoy, I'm a silly drunk. Like. REALLY silly.

Anyway, back to the party. The house itself wasn't gigantic, although the land was quite big - there was a giant driveway, and a pool at the back. The decorations were very christmassy, without being cheesy. She had these very lovely faeries (these are the traditional English faeries, not female ones) scattered around the house - I'm sure they cost a fortune as each one was incredibly lifelike, hand made, and no two had the same facial expression.

All of us sat and made merry, and eventually went home at around 3 am. I got a lift from one of my colleagues, and sat in a 2-door Merc SLK convertible with the hood down. What an amazing car, with an equally amazing insurance premium - S$5k per year. Crazy.

And of course the next day, I got into work at er 11.30, and did no work whatsoever, and scooted off for lunch at 1 pm.

La Vita e Bella. Life is Beautiful.

Cleaner

Being busy and ill these past 3 weeks has not helped with the cleanliness of the house. I finally decided to bite the bullet and try getting a part time cleaner, just for one day, to see how it goes.

Oh my how wonderful the experience is. I don't have to lift a finger and the house automatically cleans itself.

I just feel guilty that this poor cleaner, who's skinnier than Liyann, is doing all the manual labour, while I'm sitting on my very ample ass reading the newspapers. How unfair is life?

I suppose it's all relative. My colleague says his friend goes shopping in Paul Smith, and in one shopping trip can rack up a bill of S$16,000, to which he calls his mum and asks to charge it to her account with Paul Smith. That must be even more unfair.

And what about that day when we were carolling at Evelyn Road. The carpark was FILLED with European luxury marques. Not a single Japanese or Korean car in sight. Maserati. Porche SUVs. Jaguar. BMW convertibles.

And there I was with my Hyundai Getz 1.1 Manual with RED plates. I felt almost embarrassed to be there. The way that stupid guard looked at my car when I was parking into a lot.

Never mind. One day I will be there.

It starts with getting into work early.

Culture

Financial Times, December 27/28, Peter Aspden - Outside Edge

"Cultural activity is ideal for banishing thoughts of economic meldown. By reminding us that there are eternal verities that survive the grimmest of times, we are transported away from interest rate movements and a slump in the value of sterling. Like religion, culture tells us that there are bigger things in the world; unlike religion, it makes no pesky demands on our moral behaviour."

Brilliant!

Sickly Cheekopek

This is awful. My left eye has mysteriously turned red last night. I look like a bloody peeping tom. I have a headache and a swollen throat. I don't dare to take any medication in case it mixes with the vast amounts of alcohol tomorrow and makes me pass out.

Plus I snored myself awake.

At 6 am I coughed out some phlegm. Yucks.

Help. I feel shites.

Neither here nor there

Some days I feel my singing absolutely sucks; today is one of them where I feel neither a baritone nor a tenor. On the one hand I lack the warmth of the baritone in the lower / middle range; on the other hand I lack the upper register and ring of the tenors. About the only 4 notes I can sing properly are A - D.

I hope it's because I'm ill.

Still, I've always been confused whether I'm a baritone or tenor. I think my voice is too high to be a baritone, and I have difficulties singing between E and A loudly for continuous passages - it's very tiring on the vocal cords, which means either the technique is wrong, or it's just the wrong range to be singing at too long.

Yet it can't be that tenors can sing low Es when they wake up (some days I get low D). Seriously, when I wake up I can pass off for a bass.

It sucks to be neither here nor there.

Oh, and my technique kinda sucks too. Maybe I should sign of for voice lessons.

God Punisheth The Heathen Scum

As if to remind that Christmas is not meant to be enjoyed by heathen scum, I've been hit by this debilitating fever that saw me bedridden from 6 pm last night to 9 am this morning. I've tossed and turned so often that my back hurts. I've got a pounding headache, though the fever has now subsided. The throat is dry and my breath smells like the garbage dump.

I shall be croaking through choir practice later this afternoon.

Yipes. It's amazing how easily money can be spent for an evening. I discover that, for the upcoming evening on Tuesday:

Catering bill: S$2,500
Alcohol bill (champagne and wines): S$20,000 or so.
Number of people: 20 or so.
Cost per person: 1k or so.

Oh my god, I can hardly wait.

Xmas

Though December is generally the shittiest part of the year when essentially an entire month's worth of work gets crammed into 1/2 a month 'cos everyone's rushing for year end, there's much to be said about the second half of winding down for Xmas.

What's not to love about end December?

Bonus in the bank, though not as fat as last year, but still.
Fat kerching Xmas present from the boss.
Lots of carolling
Xmas parties
Bangkok trip!
New year to herald new resolutions

This year we decided that music should pervade the air and therefore decided to buy all the support staff in the team an ipod shuffle each. At $58 a pop (refurbished) we swooped up 9 units (so that no one can say we're biased) to be wrapped and distributed next week. Now, to find some way of getting rid of that "refurbished" sticker. I've always thought refurbished products from Apple were superb value.

The boss gets an iPhone 16 GB. Not really sure what she's going to do with it - she must have dumped her 80GB ipod away somewhere. We hope she likes the phone, but if not she can always give it to me hurhuhruhur. We're looking for a phone case for the iPhone that will distinguish it from the other iPhones the customers have. Called up Hermes (her favourite brand) but unfortunately they've only brought 2 into Singapore, which were snapped up on the day they were offered on sale, and will not be brought in again until Paris deigns Singapore worthy of another casing. Louis Vuitton has a rather nice one, but it's a slip-in case meaning you have to take the phone in and out, which is a bit counterproductive. Anyway, we're on a shopping mission this Saturday to look for the reclusive iPhone casing. It's gotta propel the iPhone to Vertu-like status.

Thank god we're sharing the cost of the presents among my colleagues.

May I just salivate and gush about what's happening on Tuesday again. Yesterday she went to the wine shop to sort of try some wines to decide what she would order for the party, and asked me to go do some tasting too. That of course needed no persuasion, and so I dropped all work and went downstairs.

The first bottle was rather sharp and needed some 1 hour to air. She didn't like it and therefore opened another bottle, which was much nicer.

I almost choked when she said the first bottle was about 160, and the second about 280 - 300 (well of course it'd be much better rite??). So none of that shitty wine for the party. It's all the way. There's champagne (Krug) somewhere at the start too. And bottles, and bottles of wine. The red wine's all mine - she's got some whites of her own which she prefers.

I think I must have died and gone to heaven.

Anecdote

Yet another funny anecdote from work. It was raining very heavily the other day, and this member of senior management was at the lift lobby with me and looking rather cheery.

I was a little stunned when, after some conversation, she sort of did a little whine and said: "It's raininggggg, it's all your fault!!!!! Make it stop!!!!!" in a girly high pitched voice. I thought it was the most amusing thing ever, and so I put my fingers to my head and pretended to exercise my psychic powers, and replied: "nope, not working!".

Maybe we're overworked.

Guailan

Increasingly I find that newjoiners to the Company all think I'm "scary".

I have newjoiners from the IT department addressing me as Mr. xxx, rather than by first name, though in the company we generally go on a first name basis. To give this context, only a handful of the people "very high up there" are addressed by their surnames. Yet the same person would address my peer by her first name.

Other frontline newjoiners whisper when they come to my room to talk to my roommate.

I remember another newjoiner last year, who didn't dare to come into our room - he'd motion to my roommate so step out to talk to her (we have glass walls). I thought it amusing at the time.

I'm wondering if the cause of all this is that my boss is addressed by surname and is generally regarded as "scary"*, and therefore by proxy / association I'm also "scary". But none of my other colleagues have the same propblem, though admittedly they aren't as senior.

Or may be I just have a guailan face that says "Go away you piddlesome twerp and stop wasting my time".

Ooh that's funny...

* Girls tend to run out of the toilet when they see my boss go in. They claim the temperature drops when she goes in. And then in the lifts they claim that she gives them a once-over look before giving them the glare that suggests: "what is THAT you're wearing.". I'm sure it's all false, but these urban legends tend to spread like wildfire. In the student circles they call her The Devil Wears Prada, though she's really one of the nicest persons ever.

I am loved!

Turns out that the party of drunken revelry at the boss' house was organised for me - I'm meant to invite whoever I want to spend the evening with, at my boss' house, at the boss' expense.

We're getting canapes, champagne and wine.

Not cheap crappy canapes too, I saw the menu - it's S$50 a head just for the canapes. That's before the alcohol. It's going to cost a fortune for the evening.

Oh my god. Happiness. I can't wait.

Happy Camper

I was sulking about our crappy bonus this year and the fact that our increment has been cut by half next year, when I read this fantastic article today from Lucy Kellaway from Financial Times, an excerpt of which is below.

I thought it was brilliant and really spoke to me, because it's exactly how many of us have been feeling the past few years; chasing ever higher bonuses and never being satisfied.

So, I guess I'm a happy camper now.

==========

Over the past decade, the rich, professional classes have developed an increasingly unhealthy attitude to their jobs. We took our jobs and our fat salaries for granted and felt aggrieved if our bonuses were not even bigger than the year before. We demanded that the work be interesting in itself and, even more dangerously and preposterously, that it should have meaning.

The result of all these demands was, of course, dissatisfaction. We had climbed to the very top of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and discovered that, at the top of the pyramid, the air was very thin indeed. As an agony aunt, I found that by far the most common problem readers submitted came from rich and senior professionals who had all their basic needs more than catered for, leaving their souls in torment. Help me, I’m bored, they cried. Or, worse: what does my work mean?

In the past few months, anguish of this sort has vanished. When one’s job is at risk and one’s savings are a shadow of their former selves, the search for meaning at work is meaningless. The point of a job becomes rather more basic: to feed and house (and, at a pinch, to educate) one’s family and oneself. If we can do this, then anything we manage over and above this is a bonus. Once expectations have fully adjusted to this new reality and we see earning money as the main reason for work, greater satisfaction will follow.

Low expectations have an awful lot to be said for them. In surveys women turn out to be more satisfied at work than men, in spite of earning less for the same jobs and doing most of the work at home too. The reason is simple: women’s expectations of working life are lower. Similarly, Denmark is the happiest country in the world in spite of having a cold, dark climate and a top tax rate of 68 per cent. The stoical Danes do not expect so much of life and, expecting less, find what little they have rather nice.

Climbing down Maslow’s pyramid is painful and progress is slow. However, there is something that managers can do to make the descent a little less grim. The easiest and cheapest way of cheering up demoralised workers is to tell them that they are doing a great job. It is one of the great mysteries of office life why most managers are so resistant to this when it does not cost one penny. Here is all they have to do: pick people off one by one (to do it in groups is lazy and quite spoils the impact) and say thank you and well done, and look as if they mean it.

=============

Mandarin

Most of the time I can get by on my crappy rudimentary mandarin, and I'm quite content to leave it at that. At times however, I wish I'd been just that little bit more studious in the language.

It might surprise some that (a) I was from a Chinese primary school; (b) had crap English; (c) used to win Chinese story telling competitions; (d) could never pronouce words like "three", "thursday" properly and (e) used to top my class in Chinese composition and hanyu pinyin (I can pinyin-ify any word just listening to the sound, but have forgotten the rules as to where the accents go).

All that changed when I went to UK for 3.5 years at the tender age of 9. When I came back at 12, I was speaking English like a Yorkshire coal miner. My parents thought it would be too difficult to pick up both Malay and Chinese at the same time, and enrolled me in a national school, hence my current state of being.

It's a little embarrassing especially when I go to get my regular foot and back massages at Marine Parade - this place called Chen Kang. It's a great outfit - cheap and decent. They keep it cheap by employing these people from China who are happy to work for the $8 or so they get an hour (the outfit keeps the rest for overheads).

The guy I usually go to keeps blabbering to me in Mandarin, and half the time I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about, so I just about agree to everything he says. Which must seem a bit strange 'cos sometimes I'd reply "yes, that's right" when I think he's actually asking me some question.

The only words I know are: "lighter". "yes more force please". "oh that spot hurts". "OWWWWW". "1 hour for the feet and 30 mins for the back". "I'm 29 this year.". "yes, the force is ok."

Today he asks me about rental in the area, which then led on to something about how much my house is, which of course seems astronomical. I think then there was something about a "dai4 kuan3", which I appear to have correctly guessed meant bank loan, since he then went on to ask me how much I pay for instalments every year and how many years the loan was.

I tried to be nice and say that he was still young so plenty of time to make money, and then he launched into some philosophical conversation about how some people think youth is a capital to be invested, but that for him youth was irrelevant and his hands were what's important. Or something like that. I don't know. I just went "orh. dui4.".

I think I must sound like a right retard.

Drunken Revelry Awaits

We've all been invited to the boss' house on 23 Dec for drinks and some food. Oh my god I can't wait. She has the best wines, and I am so going to get comPLETELY sloshed on the 23rd.

I think I have carolling on 23rd, but as you might surmise from the title of this blog, it's beerandchoir, not choirandbeer, and therefore alcohol (good ones at that) comes before choir.

So, very unfortunately, no choral sex for me on 23rd.

In case anyone misunderstood, IT WAS A JOKE. The posting on singing is like sex was meant to be tongue-in.... :o ....cheek.

The Farmer

Friday must have been one of the lighter moments in work. We went for a meeting with a Japanese client, and the client said, after the meeting, that she had a favour to ask of my boss. Which seemed very strange to both of us, since we've never met her before.

Anyhow, her words were: "It's private, so all of you can leave now."

The story, bizarre as it seems, goes like this: the father owns a farm, and he's getting old. He would like to see the daughter get married. To a [insert my job title], and told her that the next time she met one, she should ask her if she knew any single eligible [insert my job title] whom she could marry. So, being the dutiful and filial Japanese daughter that she is, she did exactly that.

Needless to say, my boss was quite taken aback, but immediately referred to me and said: "oh he's young, smart and HANDSOME.". And then told me, in all seriousness, that if I wanted to be farm owner (it may well be a pearl farm!), I should take her out.

I'd make a handsome farmer I'm sure.

Red Light District

Proof that I live in a red light district, or that I have a humsup face.

2.30 am. I get in a cab. In my office wear. At the office.

I tell the driver: "Joo Chiat Place please"

His response: "Joo Chiat Place...Hotel ah?"

My response: "-_- No. My house."

Incontrovertible proof that I live in a red light district.

Appalling quality of press

I am absolutely appalled at the interview the Singapore press did with Hwei Yen's husband. I can't believe the interview took 45 mins. I can't even call it an interview. The quality of the questions were beyond idiotic. It was as if a bunch of people gathered around to simply find out more gossip. It was also incredibly rude for them all to basically crowd around him and stuff their mikes in his face.

I'm so appalled at the level of reporting that I'm glad I'm not paying good money to subscribe to Singapore news. I may as well burn the money as an offering.

Also appalled at the dressing of the reporters. It's as if they are going to the market to buy fish. Zero level of professionalism.

Priorities

I wonder. If I were told I had two weeks left to live, how would I spend my time.

Often I think, not another minute in the office, that's for sure.

Yet why do I persist in slogging day after day in the office?

For the paycheque at the end of the month I suppose.

But to what end? I don't really know.

I'm not living my life fully. I need to reevaluate my priorities.

Maybe I should make a list.