I was staring at the Bangladeshi worker washing the floors of the market adjacent to the hawker centre where i was at. I thought of the water lost to his convenience. I was thinking if he had sticked to the traditional method of mopping the floor, we could salvage that scarce resource.

I was zoning out at the table, lost my appetite to don't know what. Then I found myself gazing at my grandmother's chopsticks. The wooden untensil was resting on a fatty duck meat, while granny's nifty eyes caught another bigger piece of chow, the chopsticks -just as fast- darted into that juicy brawn, before grandma decided to maneuver the tool towards the biggest --braised duck drumsticks. I was thinking that if granny wasn't picking on the food, I might not have been told off by mom for not eating (MY MUM SCOLDS ME FOR THAT!), and I might already have grabbed that tender drumstick.

And then we had chicken wings... I was thinking, how many chickens have died for this cause? How many chickens had had its throat slited, eyes gorged out, head hammered off, body grinded by modern technology so that their only two wings can be burned over that luminous flame, set ablazed by that smoke after having that sticky honey spread marinated on it for that ensanguined $8?

And then i was spacing out -again- before I was astouned by this wonderful singing of JINGLE BELLS by one of the cook at the CharKwayTeow stall. Well, it was just---too flat and he had rhythmic problems. There were hints of perverted humour in the husked drone, and he sounded between A-do and an exhausted 吴宗宪.

I was thinking, if you were to listen attentively to my two cents worth, you WILL be amazed at how I can turn black into white. (someone with half a brain should know not to take this literal...)