Waking up slightly before 9 today, I already had my day all nicely planned out, which is something I rarely do.
Watch an hour of cartoons, then go Sitex to check out the computer prices, followed by a trip to Bras Brasah to check out a couple of things. After all these would be a nice long nap back at home to repay my sleep debt and more TV before venturing into Dreamland again. Perfect.
At Sitex, I'd never felt more welcomed. The moment I step into the exhibition hall, a dozen people lined on both sides of me started greeting me. Totally awesome! As if I'm some superstar. That's until they started burying me with piles after piles of pamphlets. It was amazing how efficient these 12 people were. I'd to use my charming smile and a superstar wave to ward off part of the onslaught and escape relatively unscathed.
12 down, dozens more to go.
I'm actually in two minds as to whether to purchase a new computer. One thing for sure, though the antique computer I'm currently using still serves me adequately, it definitely belongs to the Mesozoic era of the computer evolutionary timeline. At 64MB RAM, I can hardly install any new noteworthy programs.
However, if I get a new computer now, even the lowest end model will put a hole the size of a meteor crater in my pocket. That'll invariably ruin my plans for next year.
Oh man. Sponsorship please ... anyone out there hear this? Hello?
The day went pretty well as planned, until when I was queuing up for Beard Papa at Bugis. I received a call from a friend who was in the same army camp as me. He informed me that he saw our mobilisation sign on TV.
Shining Shield. The words that send dread through me. Darn. There goes my wonderful nap.
I took my time going home. After all, I'd yet to receive any call from the unit. Maybe I'm not on the list. I could always feign ignorance of the mobilisation. I truly wouldn't have known about it if not for the call from my friend.
First open mobilisation by my unit in more than 3 years. That was also how long I've not seen my army gear. I took half an hour to dig out those stuffs from the trashes in the storeroom. All except my boots.
I couldn't recall where I'd kept my boots in the storeroom. Since I couldn't risk looking silly wearing my track shoes or slippers with my uniform, I rummaged on. I was about to resign to the fact that I would have to wear a pair of paper mache boots back to camp when I found the boots tucked in a godforsaken corner.
After three years in storage, my uniform doesn't smell good. In fact, when I put them on, I'd a scent equivalent to that of a woolly mammoth that was kept in a closet for 50 years.
My boots didn't fare any better. It was as if winter came in the box my boots were kept in. They were almost totally covered in white with mould. I didn't even dare to envisage what'd made the inside of my boots home when I put my feet in.
If things still don't sound bad to you, the content of my pack was exactly as when they were put in during the first year of my National Service. That is to say, the track shoes inside have their soles almost detached. I couldn't recall if I'd washed the mess tin and accompanying fork and spoon after the last exercise before I placed them back in. The toilet paper will soon be celebrating its 4th anniversary, as will the toothbrush and toothpaste.
If I am really called to war now, I seriously won't mind to take a short side trip to the nearest supermarket first.
I finally received the call from the unit at slightly past 4pm. The sergeant informed me that I should 'preferably be back in camp by 6pm'.
I couldn't resist a sarcastic 'Well done, sergeant!' If my friend hadn't notify me earlier, I couldn't possibly have made it time. And even then, I'd to borrow my father's car. Partly it was also to save me some cab fare and to avoid being a zoo exhibit on the MRT.
Like a hot-blooded Singaporean who's ever ready to defend his beloved country, I sped back to camp. What's breaking a few traffic rules to defending the answering the nation's call right?
Wrong. The nation didn't call me. Back at camp, I was told I could go home after reporting to just 2 out of 3 stations. Apparently, as I was just newly posted back to the unit after studies, I was supposed to be excused.
Curses.
At that particular moment, I felt like stringing all of them up with my toggle rope and stuff my mouldy boots into their sorry traps. Ditto sentiments from the few Radar guys I met who were in the same batch as me. I guess the recall ICs thought it was a funny joke to call us back.
Luckily, the police didn't catch me speeding, running red lights, driving with one hand, talking on the phone and driving into the wrong lane. I couldn't have used my nationalistic fervour as an excuse then.
Well, guess I will need to do some shopping and cleaning of my gear now that I'm operationally ready. Hopefully the next mobilisation won't come until I can spare some time out of slacking to restock my gear.
In the meantime, I would need to get rid of the stench of the woolly mammoth in my father's car. And friends, if you see my unit's sign i.e. Shining Shield on TV, please don't hesitate to inform me ASAP. I won't trust Sergeant Well-done to call me with enough time for me to prepare.