Is Sir cute?

When I was young, I cared little about looking undignified. Here is a photo I took with my little sister when my family had a day out on the beach. In those days I was in no eminent danger of drowning, fully inflatable with baby fat that would make Joash turn green with envy.

I always looked forward to these special picnics. My dad would rent a pickup truck and packed all of us to the beach, our favourite haunt. The entire clan would congregate on a sandy patch next to the sea, meticulously covered with raffia mat or old newspapers. This piece of prime real estate would be ours for the duration of the day.

My mom would whip out her mean mee siam which would be the only reason I would tear myself away from the water and make amphibious landing onto dry land. I coveted the sea and I adored being tossed about by the unceasing waves. Never mind the debri, or the pungent, putrid smell of decay washed to the sea. What mattered to me was that I loved the sea, and the sea loved me.

On the question that Tim asked, on my assertion of my own cuteness, I would leave it to him to be the judge. I would let this photo speak in my defense. If I had not learnt to live with myself and laughed at the silly things I have done, I would have killed myself until I die for simply posting this up.



Or perhaps my sister would kill me?