Blank Doll.

crudefug is quite right in describing me as insecure, miserable and pretentious (he is unbelievably stupid nonetheless for lumping me with all the assorted religionists and the poisoned sanctimonous christians of the world). This is because I am resolutedly, solidly and unabashedly bourgeois.

My grandfather owned capital and land in joint ownership with my grandmother, she a Straits Chinese whose family wedded their fortunes to colonial and then Japanese rule. My father once owned a factory, now owns two hair salons and a cafe (a third hair salon seems to be under wraps, the tentative location being somewhere in australia) while his wife is a paralegal. My mother is one of the best financial planners you can find around with 17 years of experience and more accolades then she can pin onto the walls of her office while her husband is a drummer-teacher. Parents are owners of capital and for my mother, liquidity she knows not where to put. We go on vacation at least once a year and always our compass points far away, Japan and Europe where we may assiduously efface our bourgeois nature and eventually climb higher up. No Vietnamese bargains unless it be a stay at the Angsana or Banyan although I am increasingly intrigued by the little boutique hotels of Cambodia. Not quite enough panache to be part of the industrialist/capitalist class but enough to edge our family into the haut-bourgeois.

Uncle studied at ACS, another at RI, myself repudiating the working class environs of my secondary school to go on to RJ, sister did the same and is now in RGS doing much better than the average of her school and decidedly far better than her primary school scums. Even my grandmother got an education from Nanyang. So you are absolutely right. I am a grasping bourgeois insecure in my social standing who seeks greener pasture- a dyed-in-the-wool quasi-arrivist who sticks himself right into the mainstream.

Even my tastes reflect my bourgeois streak. I like Old Masters, Degas, Vermeer, Durer, Michelangelo and Chinese three-colour sculptures. I despise the radical elements of art, be it dead Paris Hiltons or Pollock. I like the belle lettres of French literature, the diaries of Mme. de la Pin and Saint-Simons, blank verses and royalist histories. I hate with utter vehemence the avant-garde clothes of the Antwerp Five or for that matter, the Japanese Three, and covet Hermes, Kiton, Brioni, Zegna and Prada. Marc Jacobs appeals to me only because I harbour a love-hate relationship with Louis Vuitton (the monogram so declasse, the epi leather so seductive). I like nouvelle cuisine and solid French fare, hawker fare delights me occasionally but usually turns me off so yes, I am unpretentiously ostentatious. Hell, I even like Vacherons (Rolex trying too hard after all, there is a limit to my raging middle-classness). So yes, shallow and pretentious.

Let's move on to miserable and tortured. I am miserable because I do not have quite enough money to satisfy my material desires, because I am trapped by this parochial society, because I am not in Paris, because Urban is Singapore's sad sad answer to Page Six, because we have Aurum instead of El Bulli, because Prada's white cords were last season, because I am not in Paris and because my dreams remain far away as long as I am not in Paris. So spot on crudefug, I am unconsolably miserable although Canele offers me some form of consolation in the form of macaroons (even if they aren't from Laduree) and I can look forward to ice cream at Raffles Creamery (even if it isn't Berthemiers). Look, there's even Teuschers so it's not too bad after all. For now.

Oh don't be silly, I'm hardly going to lash out at crudefug for revealing his own jealousy and I am certainly not going to revel at having provoked another calm, minimum wage earner, barely white collared, averagely educated person who would probably be a great person to hang out with if I loved shopping at Far East, smoke and ate fast food into such a paroxysm of envious, toxic rage.

Anon, I love you for praying for me. Maybe one day I really will be able to walk into a church without the irresistable urge to throttle someone. Until then, I'll avail myself of the odd temple and continue to talk with GOD without the whinging squeal of the operator (a fifth of your daily wage thank you, God-thru-Us always at your service).

ANYWAY.

Lunch at Equinox was quite disappointing yesterday and I am certain Jessie will agree. I actually listened to crudefug and went to seek therapy yesterday. Didn't buy anything in the end which goes to show that I need repeated treatments but lecher des vitrines of Prada, Bally and Marc Jacobs was deeply comforting. Louis Vuitton had a queue so I continue my inner struggle over the Laguito. Talking with Jessie also happens to be very soothing not to mention amusing.

Been a lazy pig today. Woke up at 11 so didn't have time to go run the customary 6 km. Apparently, I was really tired and today's Mother's Day after all so Pa and I are whipping up a feast.

Pa: Pureed mushroom soup with cured back bacon and spring onions (no Campbell soup tins since about the only canned food we are allowed at home now are foie gras and anchovies), mixed fruit salad with smoked salmon (this time with ripe avocados after Xuan's mother's advice), grilled chicken chops (a ritual) and roast beef accompanied by roast pumpkins (another ritual).

Me: Caramelized oranges set in a terrine of orange juice, dark chocolate tart with a lemon shortbread crust and tiramisu.

Sister: A card of origami, cut-outs and paper stitched together. Her genius knows no bounds as usual.

Fetons ma vie, mes cheries. Un moment rare, ce jour-la, quand je suis, simplement, content.

C'est tout.