China Spits On Singapore

The rapture has begun, with China in the lead (assume they’re Christians just for this analogy). The population of PRC rises towards heaven with their dowdy communist grey suits. They make a transit in the skies above Singapore. A shadow is cast upon the island as the entire drab mass blocks off all sunlight. No ray escapes the numbers. Suddenly the populace, in traditional Chinese idiosyncratic culture, rakes up their internal fluids in the unity of red brotherhood. With a final gruff effort, they expectorate. Gravity takes the spittle a long way though the stratosphere and matter-of-factly splats across the Lion City.

The above was inspired by a metaphor used by a student in my school and re-cited by a teacher during a post-mortem of one of the many periodic internal JC exams:
“Singapore is so small that if everyone in China was to spit on Singapore, our tiny island would be submerged!”

The sky is hurling buckets of water down Singapore (or at least all of Bedok and Tampines) while children of the wind play “Catch” and indiscriminately fling water-bombs in the playground of my home, a box neatly stacked on the sixth level of one of the many blocks in Aquarius By The Park (by the way, my room is by the longkang).

I squeal in utmost girliness at the storm washing the exterior walls of my flat, the pseudo-threatening thunder, the sudden plummet in the temperature, the sheer feeling of being protected and potentially-warm in this cosy (euphemistic for small) apartment, as well as with my open-arm welcome of any form of distraction from the study of Economics (Keynesian’s multiplier process).

I do my Ah-Soh scamper (in a pink housecoat with prints of cartoon children sewn upside down) though the house shutting windows, pulling in the clothes, sliding close the balcony door and wrestling with the backyard door (whose glass pane once shattered upon the impact of the door slamming shut – the product of the potent wrath of a previous storm).

As I do all these, I sing multiple obscenely atrocious cover versions of “What The World Needs Now (is love, sweet love)” near the top of my voice, ending each disfigured version and beginning another unrecognisable one upon hitting the part where my knowledge of the lyrics has never developed.

While my raucous insanity musters me and I (now) walk through the house calmer, room by room, to do my spot-check of the windows and planting my music in every corner, half my room is getting flooded. The parquet threatens to warp and rot as I let out a blonde’s shriek. I talk to myself, aloud, reprimanding and complaining. My monologue/dialogue sounds so convincing, I frighten myself.