It really bugs me when people are always late for appointments.
“Maybe she’s stuck in traffic,” my flatmate Amanda said recently as we waited for Saffy like two tired old hookers outside Orchard Towers. She looked around her, nervously taking in the passing traffic of curious tourists and lecherous ah-peks who kept giving her casual glances. “And can you tell me why we agreed to meet here on a weekend?” she said eventually, and added, “I will just die if anyone asks me what my rate is!”
“Stuck in traffic, my foot,” I grumbled. “That Saffy was late for her own birth!”
And just like that, Saffy emerged from the crowd, a pint-sized dynamo in a mini-skirt, platform shoes and a tube-top (emblazoned with the words ‘No Money, No Honey’) that barely managed to qualify as a top by a mere two inches of material. “Goodness!” she trilled. “Where are all these people coming from? I was stuck in traffic!”
Eventually, she noticed my stare and shifted uncomfortably. Her bosom trembled with guilt. “What?”
“You took the MRT. What possible traffic could there be?”
“Oh, alright!” Saffy burst out. “Stop torturing me! I was trying on make up at MAC, ok? Give me a break, I’ve had a tough week!”
“But we’ve been standing here for half an hour!” Amanda said. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I got caught up!” Saffy cried. “And I’m only half an hour late!”
Amanda says that next time, we're meeting at Borders. Meanwhile, I've decided to get me one of Saffy's t-shirts in my size.