Singapore Summer

Today it was so cold in the office that when I left, a layer of cold air hung about me, and even as I walked down the street in the evening sun, I felt chilled to the bone.

I thought of drinking a bottle of rye, but I got back to my apartment to find some dame who told me she was my wife and that there's never been a successful noir set in Singapore, so I would do better to stop now. A shame. I had a fedora and a beat up suit and everything.

Today I walked to the office twice; I had forgotten to pack any lunch so I had to go home and make myself a tofurkey sandwich. I'm filled with glee on those occasions when I go home for lunch; there's the break from the office, there's the sunshine warming my skin, and there's all the tofurkey I can eat for free.

Of course, that's a mixed blessing. A month or so ago I went home, scoffed a tofurkey sandwich but in my haste, forgot to chew. I ended up with sandwich stuck in my craw and for a few minutes worried that, without an assistant to Heimlich me, I might choke to death. Alone, and embarassed. Like the time I almost slipped on my trousers at the top of the stairs in my house in London. Nobody wants to be found dead with their pants around their ankles. Especially not with some fake meat in their mouth.

Ever since then, I've thought of my near-death tofurkey experience. But I'm such an adrenaline junkie that I just can't give the delicious, juicy stuff up.

I think I need more sleep if I'm this excited about tofurkey.