*The Pointless Writer*
has a life you're completely uninterested in. But it's okay because I can write. No abbreviations. No shoddy grammar (though I'm not immune to mistakes). Just quality writing on sometimes completely pointless topics.
UnPoints of Note
1. I write when fancy takes. Sometimes, fancy takes many months of leave.
The Day the Water Dam Broke.
On Sunday, the 24th of June 2012, the sweet silent serenity of my home was broken by a shrill scream.
Such a treble voice, capable of impressing even the heavens with its skyward reach and fortissimo capabilities, could only belong to one person: Mum.
Being the loving daughter that I am, well-acquainted with the theatrics of my source of life, I momentarily diverted half my mental resources to listening for an elaboration, if it was coming, while continuing my studying. My father (my other source of life) was rather more proactive—well, he had chosen to spend the rest of his life with the next Sarah Brightman—and asked, “What? Is it a lizard?”
“THERE’S NO WATER!!!!” Came what would have been a thunderous reply if it had been far, far lower-pitched. And this was followed by an encore of the earlier performance. My mother may have indeed been a siren in another life.
“No water?” Dad exclaimed as if such a phenomenon was unheard of and completely impossible, given Singapore’s aqueous climate and the fact that most of our water comes from Malaysia anyway. It’s not like we’re ever going to have a drought. (Unless you want to argue that in war-time, we may not have the ka-ching to buy what makes up 75% of the earth’s matter. But that’s really not relevant to this story. Go somewhere else to debate the definition of ‘drought’.)
“The water was half-stream earlier!” I piped up helpfully, and then instantly felt guilty for drinking so much water.
I shall not waste words (and your eye power) recounting the following discussion word for word. Here are the minutes: we had not received any notice, neither at the lift landing nor in our mail, that there would be pipe maintenance and a momentary lack of water. Hence, it was inconceivable that we would be out of water.
After a lot of drama about not shitting in the toilet because we wouldn’t be able to flush it down, we came to a highly logical and problem-solving solution: as resourceful Singaporeans (we are the nation’s most prized resource), we would go elsewhere for water. My brother and I trooped over to SAFRA to refill every water bottle we had in the house so we had drinking water and to bathe at the pool showers so we wouldn’t die from our own B.O. during the night while we dreamt stinky, stinky dreams. It was also a prime chance to get rid of any undigested waste material… and being able to flush it down.
I, personally, derived extra pleasure from the fact that our SAFRA memberships got us into the pool free and we literally had free baths: free water, free soap. (No shampoo, but my hair can get shot for one day. It’s okay, really. Don’t cry.) And if you’re going to argue about the cost of the memberships, I’m going to kick you to the Bahamas. Right now. Seriously.
My parents chose to head over to the library, not because the library has shower facilities but because they wanted to borrow books. What did you think they went there for?
Now comes the moment I provide you enlightenment and you have that AHA moment I read about in some thinking book. (It might have been by Edward de Bono. It might not have been.)
On our way out to exercise our Singaporean resourcefulness, we found a flood. Flood. Drought. Flood downstairs. Drought upstairs. Hmm… It seemed a main pipe had broken behind locked doors and we were completely reliant on PUB sending someone to fix it though I know I could have done the job with masking tape. Meanwhile, the water was pouring out from under the doors to heaven and filling earthly drains for street urchins to frolic in. Just kidding. About the urchin part anyway. They were resident kids who didn’t know what diseases they were contracting from our now filthy water as it pranced along the cement floor, where lap dogs sometimes poop as lap dogs do and their owners pretend not to know they’re supposed to pick it up (as inconsiderate owners do), leaving the stool behind for unsuspecting residents to step on and then attempt to wipe off on the rest of the floor as they walk along, resulting in a long shitty trail of bacteria. Which was now being washed away by the area’s new wading pool.
Dad had refused to bathe at SAFRA, insisting the water would have climbed up to our apartment on the fifteenth floor through the newly fixed pipe by the time we got back from the library and dinner. Whaddya know? He was right! But hey, I still got a free bath.