Museum Trip

"Free coffee and tea on the counter inside." the lady said cheerfully.

"Family?" she asked, looking from me to him, as she handed me the admission tickets and my change. The philatelic museum was empty of visitors this early in the morning. Tourists usually start coming in around during the afternoon.

I blinked, taken aback. "Uh, yeah."

He strode past me inside without a word.

There was a small table tucked in the corner, with electric kettle, paper cups and boxes labelled "Coffee" and "Tea". I pressed the steaming water into a cup and picked out a sachet.

He turned from a glass exhibit of a coffee grinder. "You are going to get indigestion."

The water swirled delicate light brown tendrils as I dipped the tea bag into my cup.

"It's a nice to be holding a hot drink in your hand again." I stirred the warm tea. The faint waft of aroma was familar, nostalgic, and comforting all at once. "You don't have to drink it."

I picked up another paper cup. "Coffee or tea?"

"1876 Postal Riot"

The second floor holds the gallery on the history of postage in Singapore.

We paused at the exhibit on chinese immigrants' role in postal services. They had developed a system of their own through which the chinese sent money and mail through self-organised "letter shops".

I snapped a shot of the framed letter and envelope with their elegant calligraphy.

A middle panel showed the chinese sub-post office riots when the chinese rebelled against the new postal system imposed by the british colonial government. There was mayhem in the streets and the shopkeepers went on a strike.

"We smashed into the post office and wrecked their furniture in the streets." he said abruptly.

I turned to him in surprise, finger on camera.

"We attacked the police at New Market Street and again at Rochor. The police opened fire. They shot me in the chest."

There was dead silence, except for the background murmur of the multimedia slideshows. I didn't know what to say.

He stalked off to the next exhibit. I closed my mouth and hurried after him.

Gift Of A Letter

In the digital age of convenience and speed, is there a place for letters anymore?

"Excuses for not writing letters" invited the wall. The wall panel was criss-crossed with doodles, funny faces and sprawling handwriting. A giant guestbook of comments and counter replies and arguments in colourful graffiti.

"What for, when I can email??" I read.

"Takes too long to wait for a reply!" argued another in bold purple.

There was a marker in a plastic holder. I squatted down and scribbled my reply in a clean corner of the wall.

"Your handwriting is horrible." he remarked.

"Thanks." I said dryly.

"You can always send a postcard to me."

I thought it over.

"I'll pass it to you the next time you drop by my place then."

I raised my cup, tipped it back, swallowed and tossed it away into the trash bin. A moment later, I heard his following mine, dropping heavily in the plastic lined bin.

Eight Hours Later

I wobbled out of the toilet with the sound of the cistern flushing behind me. Flopped onto the bed feebly. Looked at the time. I was inside for over an hour. After a while, when the lurching in my stomach subsided, I fumbled for the mobile phone, flipped it open and dialed.

"What?" he croaked.

"Try not to have anything for the next day or so. It helps."

"Shut up."

*click*

I laughed - then broke off in mid-crackle to grope for the toilet again.