Tajmall

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Not only must I grit my teeth when I type the very word 'Blog' -swoon at it's lack of glamour- it also seems that I've not been Blogging properly if I follow the made-in-Singapore templates that I've seen elsewhere. So let me address this by telling you something -or nothing- about myself (as if none of what is here says anything about me). You be the judge. And make sure your wig fits. It's a requirement for passing sentences. Like water.

MOTHER WAS A TRACKSTAR - BACK IN THE FARTHERLAND
And so: farther and farther I go - full unfathomable five...

My Mother was once a trackstar, and My Father timed her -- once or twice at least -- and O, how she ran.

Now, I admit I wasn't never interested in these details... not until the day I found it gave me sway with this girl who was a fan of Belle et Sebastian. O, how I milked it. But then again, I was a bastard by then.

See, my Dad was once a trackstar -so the story ran- but he didn't like to talk about it. How being this athlete turned him into a man. That, and a course of hormones from the Sports Council of the East Germans.

Of course, I got confused the day I came home only to be told that my real Mother was a man. O aye, a real mother that. That this moustached man was once my Mam. I was a bastard then. I hope you understand.

And now I'm wrestling... with the next question: is this my Mother, or the Father, Land?