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We met at Original Sin, a vegetarian restaurant just off the main street, which served us a fairly good mezze, an acceptable pizza and a dessert that was a bit too rich and stodgy (chocolate brownie for me, cheesecake for her). As it's been years since last we met, I reacquainted us by gabbling about the oddities of porn (the esoterica of erotica? Somebody's spent too long alone in hotel rooms) and then we discussed alienation, commercialism, acquaintances who've been published, and Margaret Thatcher. It was more enjoyable than that sounds.
We had a bottle of wine (Cono Sur, the ludicrously named Chilean wine that fuelled us in Nova Scotia this summer) and after we'd set the world to rights, went round the corner for some more drinks. Well, after we'd spent a very long time waiting for the bill, having somebody else's bill and credit card brought for me to sign, sitting around some more feeling confused...
If you've read the last few things I've written, you'll know that I'm a bit rubbish at booze these days. I knew this, so eventually I admitted defeat and scrambled for a train home. However, because Singapore is designed for people to go to bed early so they can get up early to get to the office, the last train home had gone home, and I had to take a taxi instead, and end up feeling nauseous in the back of a cab.
Perhaps that was original sin, although I'm not signed up for that sort of religious doctrine. If you're feeling ruined in the back of a speeding car, it's more likely to be because you've overindulged on booze than because some dupe ate an apple in a garden thousands of years ago. Or perhaps it is a judgment for going to a restaurant named after a religious construct. At least it wasn't Purgatory.
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