Slow Is Good.

I've decided to blog about this in a different post, because it's of a decidedly different nature, and I do not want this musing and introspective side of me to be tainted by the unintelligent malice of dah previous post. To put it simply, I want to keep my alter-egos separate. To prevent internal personality conflicts, you know?

Anyway I've started work, and work is always hectic and backache-causing. (Never mind that I was forced to don a fluorescent yellow shirt against my will.) (Never mind that I've actually only worked for three days.)
I have a fifteen-minute break everyday, and there isn't much you can do with fifteen minutes. Maybe take a walk round the entire building of shops. Or finish half a cup of mashed potato from 7-11 (I'm a slow eater). There isn't much to do around either, except maybe hang out at the hawker centre and gossip with the workers there (that's what the other cashier-aunties tend to do).
So on one of these stellar fifteen-minute break, I suddenly had a craving for fried ice-cream from the stall which I've seen a couple of times but never had the urge to patronise before. I went up to the stall to find the uncle sleeping soundly in his chair. Seeing that my precious fifteen minutes might not last till his nap is up, I proceeded to wake him up with a chorus of "Uncle! I want ice-cream!". The old uncle looked up and had one of those guileless smiles to his face.
"Xiao mei yao chi ice-cream ah?" He said it in this I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world tone.
Then he sluggishly unfolded his legs and hobbled over to the fridge, whistling this I-am-the-happiest-man-in-the-world tune.
As he fried the ice-cream in the lukewarm oil ("Xiao mei, deng yi xia you re ah ... "), he kept up this languid but amiable conversation. I couldn't help but strike up a comparism between his service and the service of the bubble tea ladies - the ladies were motorised and efficient, but didn't seem to care very much for their wares and patrons. On the other hand, this old uncle was cheery and in no hurry (my fifteen minutes was slipping fast), as if frying ice-cream was the best thing to happen in his life.
Contrary to feeling impatient, I actually relaxed and fell momentarily to the old uncle's pace of life.
(The ice-cream was pleasantly piping hot on the outside, and the cold filling was nicely contrasting.)
Then I looked at my mobile phone's clock and realised time was up. So I hurried back to my counter, but not without the lasting aftertaste of fried mango ice-cream in my mouth. (It was so everlasting, I still burped fried-mango-ice-cream two hours later.)

Erps, I didn't intend for this post to be a mushy musing on life. Never mind, I shall steer it into neutral territory. The conclusion is, fried mango ice-cream rocks, and I think fried strawberry ice-cream might rock even more. We'll see tomorrow.

P.S. By next Wednesday I can chuck the stupid neon-yellow shirt!