Those of you who have read one of my earliest posts, “Youngest Uncle” may remember my plans for my fortieth (there, I said it!). Everything has been arranged now. 60 guests (gulp), at the Ritz Carlton, complete with a stage and sound systems for a night of high spirited performances which hopefully won’t require my contribution (gulp gulp).

As I come to terms with the impending start of the second half of my life, I’ve been thinking a lot about my first half.

The first ten is at best blurry now. I wouldn’t say I remember my childhood as a very happy one. And this is not an accusation against my parents. It is not an accusation against anyone. It’s just the way it was. Life in a kampung with four of us squeezed into a room next to a pig sty, Mum and Dad facing constant financial pressures, and my coming to terms with my moon face (!), just doesn’t make for a great fairytale, does it? But it made me who I am. It gave me purpose, focus and grit. All of which have served me very well.

The second ten is clearer. Those were my studious years – one long relentless drive for academic excellence. They were also my transitional years. I attended a local primary school until 12. It wasn’t a “good” school by any present standards. Mum and Dad sent me to the nearest one from home! We spoke primarily Chinese, and none of my school mates was rich by any measure. I worked hard, topped the school at the Primary School Leaving Examinations and went on to a “famous” secondary school. And what a shock that was.

It was an all-girls Catholic school. For the first time, there was no distraction of boys (not that I am easily distracted, of course). And I came in touch with a different religion from mine. I learnt how to say prayers and sing hymns. How I enjoyed them! More importantly, I came across a different breed of girls…the posh ones. You know those? They speak English differently from the rest of us, somehow. Their hair is always amazingly glossy and shiny, never a single strand out of place. Quite unlike the unruly, wiry mob I wore. They glow with health, confidence and beauty. There were many of these at my school. I wanted to be one of them.

Alas, I was never cool enough. Once, when I was 14, we were allowed to wear our own clothes to school. I picked the best in my closet – a much easier task then, given I had a grand total of five pieces, a desperately far cry from the miserably obese state of my walk-in today (by the way, don’t believe the rumour that I never repeat my clothes. Note to self: debunk all such rumors in the next piece). And so, I paired an orange camisole with a navy blue cardigan (I know…), and… a navy blue skirt with white flowers. Have I lost all credibility by now?! I still remember the snigger of one of my posh friends.. There you go, not the best start to my career as a fashionista, but even Victoria Beckham began life as a Spice Girl (even if it was a Posh one), no? I wonder if I’ll find the courage to pair orange with navy again..?

I survived that initial crash of confidence – by working even harder. If I couldn’t be an “IT” girl, I would be a smart one. So I applied my laser focus and finished “O” levels top of the school. But that’s not the best gift of those four years. The best gift was my friends. Friends whom I’ve kept till today. Friends who will be singing/dancing on that stage in a couple of weeks’ time.

I moved on to a “top” junior college. Junior colleges come with err.. boys. As I turned 18, for the first time in my life, I fell in love.. [to be continued…].

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