Am currently in Singapore, for Laneway — well, for Feist. This musical pilgrimage is meant to last me for the rest of the year.
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Came down at the start of the weekend. Putting up with Norman Teh (of Poskod.sg, which seems to be doing good work) in Serangoon Gardens, a middle-class neighbourhood built in the 1950s with handsome 1950s-style terrace houses.
The house in which Norman rents his room has a pretty garden with fruit trees (got durian) and wind chimes (got six). His landlord is an elderly Chinese uncle who is bent-backed and soft-spoken.
“Oh, I’ve been to Port Dickson,” he said, softly. “Very nice beach.”
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Uncle was at his downstairs-living room desk both mornings I’ve been here, reading his paper with the desk-lamp on. I am hesitant to talk to him, being a guest of a guest in his home. I seat in the garden swing instead.
Luxury cars pass by. An elderly couple walks down the street; an old man cycles up it.
There is a sign on the garden fence: “FOR SALE” it says, with accompanying phone number and a picture of the agent in charge (one Bjorn Chua).
Many houses on this street are looking for tenants or buyers, as their original occupants give out, one by one. When they are bought they will be gutted and turned into confections of flat, modern facades; tall timber-plank gates; and concrete porches for luxury cars.
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I wonder why uncle is selling his pretty house. Norman says that uncle’s daughter says he is selling it so he can buy a Ferrari and travel to China to bang lots of young girls.
The daughter lives here, too. The only times I saw her she was rushing off somewhere; the only thing she said to her father when I was here was: “Did you know that Norman had a friend staying over?” Norman says she is a yoga freak.
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