Gone by next Weds

I loved my job—it is two doors down from Books Actually (my absolut fav. bookshop that plays Pink Martinique), has dental insurance and a bigshot sounding title, and even my dinners are reimbursed if I work after eight. But barely two months into the job, I received a more lucrative job offer from a news agency. I had to say yes, and for a while almost reluctantly until the boss handed me two bloody boxes of ozalids to shred shortly after the tender. It doesn’t seem like such a bastardicious decision on my part anymore.

My farewell lunch was a rude awakening. Everyone rant and raved, everyone said mine’s a timely departure, and to consider myself lucky to have escaped unscathed from the boss’ wrath. Bosses, I read somewhere before, come in all shapes, sizes and mental stability and this one—after all the horror stories I heard during the lunch—fits the mould of a twig with yellow bile. The boss from hell!

I hate to clichér but I’m glad I’m moving on to the West where there’s a greener pasture, somewhat literally. Goodbye books, hello news!

Above: Of me as the one and only skimpily dressed nyonya ice cream seller in Singapore. It’s just a filler to help fund my pursuit of pleasure.