Bayi Simi Sek

That is the name of this horrendously childish and racist game that apparently Chinese kids play, but I was completely unaware of for some reason. My childhood games were more along the lines of "catching", because in the typical Singaporean manner, it was only sensible to name the game after the action one had to do to play it. I'm not entirely certain why we couldn't just call it tag like the ang moh kids.

Then again, I was puzzled for ages by the "twist" thing, until I figured out through a friend's blog it was probably a bastardized version of "peace", complete with the two fingers, which we mispronounced into "twiss", then "twist", and made it our own by sporting crossed fingers to ward off the "catcher".

But for the uninitiated, Bayi Simi Sek works by spotting a Sikh guy and pinching your less perceptive friends and making them guess what colour his turban is and you only let go when they get it right. According to Elton, they have a Sikh guy in the office who's quite a fashion plate and he turned up in a polka dotted one one day. One of the receptionists sported an insane bruise for the next week or so.

Yes, it's horribly racist. But it's also a testament to how rare Sikh guys with the full wrap are. If we played Tudung Simi Sek we'd never get anything done.

Speaking of colours, I had an "enlightening" conversation with someone who told me she got people to paint to express their emotions. It wasn't anything new, really, the fact that different cultures saw colours in different ways, and how colours can have different meanings for people.

But it did give me inspiration for this post, so let's hear it for small talk.

Let's talk about the colour red. Red is the colour of the tape I am having to deal with and the colour I am seeing thanks to said tape. As I mentioned, I managed to get a job offer. Any semblance of relief and gratitude evaporated when I realized they wanted me to fill in forms. Many many fucking forms, all asking the same thing, but in different formats so I can't quite copy and paste. The corporate soul-sucking little bastards.

In desperation, I called my friend who got into the same company before I did and asked her how she dealt with it. Apparently she too lost her patience with that nonsense and just, in her words, "anyhow anyhow fill in lah". I mean, honestly, how the heck am I able to give you a nice flat figure of what my pay used to be when it ranged by hundreds of dollars? If I happened to do a number of long flights or good medium hauls (i.e. Japan or Australia), then pay's good. If I had a number of turnarounds or shit long haul flights (i.e. Dubai-Istanbul), then too bad. It's still good, but just not as much.

So I followed her shining example and just gave a random figure based on agaration. Screw you, bureaucracy.

Grey is the colour of my mood. I had a total of two interviews with that company before they offered me the job. The first one was fantastic; I left highly optimistic, thinking I've found a nice solid career I can work in for the next decade or so. The second one left me entirely depressed and wishing I could go be someone's mistress.

After talking with Elton, I decided to dismiss most of the doom and gloom as their method of discouraging the half-hearted and just go with it, since opportunities weren't exactly practicing a B&E chez moi.

Except that Elton somehow got it into his head that I need to pursue a writing career and started setting up meetings for me with magazine editors.

Now, it is unbelievably sweet of him to do so. The only problem is, I'm feeling this incredible inertia towards the whole thing. I'm not even sure why. If he did it a month ago, when I was still thinking of the whole thing, I probably would have jumped at it. Or at least displayed a little more enthusiasm.

But at this point in time, it's like I've already put my reservations aside and am standing on the edge, ready to dive into the shark pool and he asks if I want to go see the dolphin show instead. Part of me is more than willing to start running for the dolphin show. But part of me thinks that I've finally managed to grow a pair of balls from nowhere and am now ready to man up and do something that I've never done and had never dared to do before.

I recognise the wisdom in his words. This is not a job I will be happy at. I should be able to tolerate it, but I'm not sure it'll bring me any joy. It is not something that makes use of my talents, and I should try to get paid for what I'm good at. Since the mistress thing is out and I'm not quite Mediacorp material, I guess that leaves writing.

With luck, I might be able to find a job in the magazine business before I actually have to start work in November. And now that I've actually had a proper thought about why the heck I feel so blah about trying something else, I realize that it's the old fear coming back again; I don't dare to try because I'm afraid I'd fail. And because it's something that I actually want to do, I'm even more afraid I wouldn't get it.

Yeah, I agree, it makes as much sense as standing in the rain so I'll get sick and be able to force my loved ones to bring me to Swensen's (YES, THAT AD IS FUCKING STUPID). Or like refusing to let my boyfriend drink teh peng because Allswell drinks are better for him and he'd better do it because I love him (THAT AD IS FUCKING STUPID TOO). And in order to avoid being labelled FUCKING STUPID by some other blogger out there, I decided to take the plunge and go watch the dolphin show.

(I just love confusing you with my many metaphors.)

And because I'm the single most efficient person I know, I sent out my CV to two companies, tapped on a friend for the email of another person I know (but was never close to), and hopefully will get to meet with a bunch of magazine people to hear about what life is like as a writer. I know you're ragging on me about the two companies part. Buddy, I'm in Singapore. There are only two companies.

Ok, I exaggerate, but the actual number isn't that much bigger.

Here's hoping you'll see my writing in a whole new different format.