I bear in mind fidgeting on two plastic chairs stacked on prime of one another, legs dangling, hobbit-height. Each Sunday, we come to the identical espresso store in MacPherson Road for breakfast. The identical drive in my father’s white BMW coupe. The identical steaming bowl of fishballs floating in clear broth, garnished with chopped spring onions.
The espresso store boss in his hole-ridden white T-shirt flicks the cap off a bottle of Kickapoo. Invariably, I find yourself spilling a few of that Joy Juice down the entrance of my frock. The pale yellow liquid fizz within the hammock of my skirt earlier than trickling into my lap, soaking my frilly white socks and puddling in my Mary-Janes.
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