Yesterday was a nightmare. All from the damn moment i stepped out of Little India Mrt Station with Alvin the P. The whole Mrt exit was filled up with Indians, Bagalahs and whoever. I dont know, they all look alike to me. We had a hard time trying to squeeze ourselves through the terrifying human crowd. Plus, with the sudden down pour, we had no choice but to walk in the rain by foot (we cant find a cab in the whole goddamn place) to Mustafa which i estimated to be at least 500m away. Belly good. Thanks for the hoodies by the way, Alvin. I owe you a meal!
When we finally reached the shopping centre, we were issued with another task, find ss&co. We walked up and down, left and right, and round and round yet we didnt manage to bump into each other. We even rang one another numerous times and double confirmed we are all in Mustafa. But who would have thought that there are two (or three) shopping centres named Mustafa. Belly good. How dumb is it? It is like naming all your three sons Tom, Tom and Tom. Preposterous, no?
And it was the lousiest idea to head down Mustafa on a Sunday when Deepavali is approaching in one week's time. Everywhere is people. Outside the shop, on the grass patches, on the road, even outside the rubbish chute. I tell you the amount you find outside Jurong Point is just peanuts to what i saw. In the end, i only bought home :
an XL M&M's choco and a burned out body. I should have gotten the Casio watch too. Argh.
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