The Birthday Party

On 1 May 2009, I celebrated my 30th year in the workforce.

I started work on 1 May 1979, with the afternoon tabloid, New Nation, becoming Singapore’s first female sports writer.

After my byline appeared, I received a call.

“HULLO, SHIRLEY PLEASE.”

“Yes, this is she.”

“SHIRLEY AH?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

The caller covered the mouthpiece, but though slightly muffled, he was audible: "EH, CHIN EH! SI CHA BOR!"
(Hey, it's real. It's a female.)

Click.

Toooot... Toooot... Toooot...

***

I studied in a prestigious all-girls school. My schoolmates were the daughters and granddaughters of Singapore's who's who. They had servants waiting in the canteen every day to buy their bowl of noodles and pyramid pack of Magnolia milk before the bell rang for recess. While they were tucking into their food, we were queuing up or finding a seat or trying not to spill our bowl of noodles and scalding our hands.

They were chauffered to and from school either by their parents who were doctors, lawyers and engineers or their parents' paid drivers. They in turn, motivated and inspired, wanted to be doctors, lawyers and engineers.

They had birthday parties that I could only dream about and wish for. One day, one of them invited me to her birthday party.

I was thrilled. Of course I wanted to go. But what present could I give a girl whose parents could afford everything? I would not have been able to buy her a gift worth more than $2. Would she be disappointed at its low-value? Would her friends laugh when they saw it?

When we were eating her birthday cake - a most delicious chocolate cake, I remember - she opened her presents. A Speedo swimsuit, a three-feet tall doll that could walk and talk, a doll house complete with dolls and accessories...

Then, she came to my gift. It was the size of a school exercise book, wrapped in brown paper. It didn't even have a real ribbon on it, just one drawn with a red colour pencil.

Suddenly, the room went silent. Everyone looked at me. I remember wishing I didn't want to go to the party. I wished I didn't give her such a poor-looking present.

She unwrapped the exercise book. A moment passed. She exclaimed: "It's a story and I'm in it!"

She started reading it aloud. Everyone listened. At the end of the story, she came over and gave me a hug. Everyone said it was a wonderful story and asked me to write them stories too.

"The story is a birthday present. I can't write stories for all of you," I said.

Over the next year, I was invited to 22 birthday parties. And all of the birthday girls asked for birthday stories.

I had become a serious writer.