I am “officially freelance”. Or “technically unemployed”. Lonely, lazy, sad, come to any conclusion you want. The fact is, most mornings, I don’t actually HAVE to be anywhere. But I tell myself I do. So I get up early, meditate (more on this phenomenon later), throw on some comfy threads and walk Rebecca down to the MRT. This serves five purposes. One, I am forced to get dressed. Two, I feel like I have a job as I walk purposefully with all the commuters down to the train. Three, I get some quality time with Becca. Four, I can feel the weather, rather than just see it through the window. Five, I can sit and eat breakfast with all the retired men of Pearl Bank Hill.
For $1.60, I get a delicious spread that awakens my senses, fills me up and, I am pretty sure, is making me fat. Fast.
Singaporean coffee, or kopi, is similar to Vietnamese in that it is black as night, served with a generous lashing of condensed milk and sipped with the teaspoon still in the glass. YUM, and made all the more so when teamed with Kaya toast. This is buttery, sugary toast that is often smeared with a thick layer of even more sugary, coconut spread. And if I pay a little more, I get a couple of runny eggs to dip it in. Sounds weird for cereal/jam-on-toast types, but it has become a tradition for a reason. And it’s a deliciously, sweet, friendly tradition that I am loath to give up, despite some of its less desirable effects.
*note reading material. The New Paper. Today (26/09/11) I read about an expat wife who threw herself out her window and exactly what was left at the murder scene in another apartment. Singapore is a gritty place I tell you.