Solo in Singapore

I lived with my parents when I started working after college, and moved out only after marriage, thereby by-passing the bachelor lifestyle that embellishes many a middle-aged memoir. Life, as they say, usually gives you at least a second chance, and my time has come now.

I live on a busy but quiet street, quite centrally located. I was attracted by the exterior – a white two storey building that looked like it had been around for many years, and certainly for much longer than the modern multi-storey condominium across the street. It has a small iron gate that is never locked. When the agent opened the main door and took me up a wooden staircase that creaked under our every step, my instinct was confirmed, and I knew this would be home for the next few months.
The inside of my mini studio seemed just right for one or two, and too small for a family. Wooden flooring, double bed (super king size as the agent claimed – not quite truthfully, I think), cable TV with 3 Indian channels, fridge, cook top, shower , toilet, kitchen with some plates and cutlery. The washing machine has an array of options with an electronic display that would impress a pilot.

I have never made myself very useful around the house, but with a housekeeper (whom I have never seen) coming in once a week, I found myself with little choice but to take on at least some domestic chores. Ranking items in order of increasing drudgery, I have always found it’s a toss-up between doing dishes and ironing for the dubious distinction of “Most Painful”. I don’t know what I was thinking – ironing clearly stands supreme in this regard. Dishwashing, especially when one isn’t doing too much cooking beyond omelettes and tea, is a breeze. Ironing shirts that have been through a three hour washing/drying cycle, to emerge with more wrinkles than on the face of a 100 year Kurdish tribal woman that I think I once saw on the cover of National Geographic, is a different matter altogether.

I very quickly made my search for a neighbourhood laundry the top item on my agenda. Most turned out to be surprisingly picky, choosing to iron shirts only if they had also washed them for you, which seemed to me a bit like a barber saying he would only shave you if you let him cut your hair first. But in the end, I found the “Systematic Laundromat” which was clearly ahead of competition in terms of customized solutions, and also offered “Ironing Only” in its product suite. I was chided by the woman in charge for getting lint over my trousers which I had washed together with my underwear, and also bringing my clothes in slightly damp, but in the end I guess she didn’t hate me enough to refuse the business. Deal done, it was worth the money and the embarrassment.

On the culinary front, I have progressed a little beyond toast and tea. The last couple of times, I managed not to burn the rice, and concocted some edible mixture of vegetables in a broth, spiced up with some curry powder and chillies. It’s the sort of thing that tastes not bad when hot. I think it could be convincingly sold in a tea stall on a mountainous road that they show in some TV ads, as a Tibetan staple food that the locals eat with yak cheese, or something like that.

I work late during the week, and when I come back up my creaky staircase and open my door to the studio in the same state of disarray that I left it in the morning, it feels good to be home, however temporary, it may be. And when the bed is made, and the dishes nice and dry by the sink, I know it’s Tuesday and my invisible weekly help has been here.