Steven qualified as an accountant some three years ago and he has been working for his current employer ever since. He chose to be in this profession upon successful completion of his GCE 'O' level. His reasons were staightforward. Firstly, although he was in the Science stream throughout his secondary school years he could not stand the thought of having to participate any further in laboratory sessions; he wanted out - desparately! This constituted the 'push' factor. Then, came the twin 'pull' factors: he deems the profession to command much respect, and he likes the idea of being the financial expert of an enterprise.

It was tough to qualify. His GCE 'A' level results in Commerce was not good enough for admission to read Accountancy in the local university. As for studying abroad, it was beyond the means of his parent. The clincher came when an uncle mentioned about the professional qualification accredited by the Chartered Institute of Management Accountants. When his national service stint was duly served he had promptly enrolled with Stamford College. There were four levels to clear. Through sheer hardwork and the support of his parents he succeeded in clearing the final level on his second attempt. Thereafter, in the words of his favourite teacher, Mrs Woon, 'the world is at your feet'. Since then this has been the accomplishment which he relishes the most.

The three accounts assistants were starting to pack up for home and the weekend. It was five minutes to the official knock-off time at five p.m.. Steven flipped over to the last page of the Business Times and zoomed-in on the 'Bottomline' column. He enjoys reading what other people has to say. But deep inside him he knows that it would please him even more…. much more to pen his very own thoughts, and speak to the world: anybody who cares to listen. And, this desire has been growing somewhat more intensely of late. "If only I could get started," he would often mutter to himself.

Soon Steven was aboard Bus No.106 from Bukit Batok bus interchange en route to Taman Serasi Food Centre, which is adjacent to the Botanical Garden. It was time for his rendezvous with Cleve; a ritual of sorts which they undertake with gusto on a fortnightly basis. The choice of Taman Serasi originated from Steven. It was there and then that they renewed their acquaintance six month ago with Steven 'buying' a term life insurance policy from Cleve.

They had known each other since the days at Stamford College where they were classmates. Cleve quitted his studies after two unsuccessful attempts at the Level-1 examination. A teacher has planted in him the idea of doing sales work. It stuck in Cleve's mind, and he started out by selling executive shirts for men at CK Tangs Ltd. From the superstore he move on to become an assistant banquet manager at Tai-Pan Hotel before landing himself at Prudential Assurance Company Pte Ltd. This last move paved the way for re-activating his acquaintance with Steven, and vice versa.

As the bus approaches Gleneagles Hospital, Steven could see Cleve leaning against one of those half-metre tall, cylindrical, concrete barriers guarding Taman Serasi against the encroachment of vehicles. Cleve was punctual as usual. Steven grinned and fed his mind with, 'This guy is reliable alright'. Their eyes met, they smiled to each other, said "Hi!", and stepped forward into their favourite hangout.

Despite its location in a prime residential district just off Orchard Road and its simple configuration, Taman Serasi is a food centre with dignity and character. Unpretentious as it is, Taman Serasi is able to hold its own worth without having to succumb to the modern approach of the not-too-distant food courts snuggled into shopping centres along Orchard Road. The stalls at Taman Serasi are covered with zinc roofs while squarish, metal tops shelter clusters of cement table and benches, leaving pockets of spaces in-between. These openings allow one to peer through and survey the grandeur of green foliage forming the one-of-a-kind canopy over Taman Serasi.

The food is fabulous. This is due in large part to two star 'performers' namely: roti john (reputedly the best in Singapore), and the original soursop drink (with real flesh and a slice of lemon) which is made available throughout the year. This place attracts people from all walks of life, including tourists who frequent the Botanical Garden. The final analysis is that the whole place exudes life, and every visitor can feel that he shares a part of the actions. And, the die-hard fans like Steven and Cleve know it.

The two plastic cups of tantalizing soursop drink were delivered by John, the marketing supremo of a drink stall. His mom does the background work while he prowls around for regular and potential customers. He gives to one the impression of a self-made man, and it be no surprise if on account of the aforementioned drink alone. Then came two plates of roti-john; crispy on the outside and tender within. These two must-haves made their mark yet again to the delights of Steven and Cleve. With their drinks half-finished and the roti-john fully consumed, they move on to mee rebus. The noodles, though not as good as the ones at Bedok Bus Interchange hawker centre, were not too bad, they concurred.

"You know," Steven said, "the best time to visit Taman Serasi is in the evening."

Cleve knows and smiled in agreement. This is definitely not the first time that Steven has said so. It has been innumerable come to think of it.

Urged on by the understanding look of his pal, Steven continued, "It offers such a congenial respite. Good for the soul … very invigorating. I would hate to be with the lunchtime crowd though which has but a singular obsession --- eat and be done with. It would be a mild disdain to treat Taman Serasi as merely a perfunctory eating venue."

As Steven paused, Cleve chipped in, " I know what you mean. You have already won me over to this place. I think that it is indeed sad if working people like us fail to savour a place like Taman Serasi. And sadder still, if due to insensitive commercialism we end up destroying the atmosphere of a place. I, for one, do not like what is happening over at Holland Village. In my opinion, the modern facade of some of the shops there are truly jarring in the craze of being unique so as to render a come-uppance. Whatever happens to harmony with the natural environment!"

They were both finishing their noodles and soursop drinks. By now the diners were thronging the food centre, and, as far as Steven could see, every dining spots has its occupants - kindred souls like himself he was convinced. They are the ardent devotees making their pilgrimages. Steven finished first.

"Teh hahlia for you, Cleve?" asked Steven. "Sure thing," Cleve replied promptly. The hired hand of the Indian drink stall, some ten metres away obliquely , was alert. He nodded in acknowledgement to Steven's right-handed 'V'-sign. Steven took it for granted eventhough it was a perk for 'regulars' like himself. Within the minute, the stall assistant had brought forward two brimming glasses of hot and brothy 'Boh' tea intermingled with ginger.

"Aah, such simple pleasure," said Steven upon taking his first sip. Cleve was pleased with the tea as well and let out an equally appreciative 'aah' after his first sampling. The tea capped their meal fittingly. They both felt good about themselves. If words alone alone were inadequate they would have volunteered themselves in-persons to be a statement of contentment. Incidentally, the 'teh hahlia' was not classified as a star performer as they prefer that at Lorong Liput, Holland Village.

Another simple pleasure was to survey the land, so to speak. To his right, Steven could see a group of men hovering round a table where two others were pitting their skills against one another in a game of checker. He felt sure it was the expanded version with five rows of seeds rather than the usual three rows. Further on, a younger group of males were chatting heartily away over their meal. One of them was even plucking some familiar tunes on his trusty guitar, adding to the merriment of one and all. Heading down the stairs from the adjacent car-park was a blonde-haired couple, presumably expatriates, and their two boys. It did not look like they were making their first drop-in. There was a sprinkling of families representing the diverse races of Singapore. Courting couples were aplenty, fully absorbed with their partners. For many of these couples, this mealtime is but a prelude to more happenings in the Botanical Garden. Also present was a group of bikers - students on vacation with their beloved machines parked against and along a row of low metal fencing fringing the food centre.

'An eclectic lot', Steven observed appreciatively. 'This is real life drama; not the reel thing. This is where it all …."

"So when will your promotion be, Steve?" Cleve interjected.

Steven frowned. So Cleve repeated himself.

"Frankly, I am not hard-up any more." came the cool reply.

Steven's immediate superior, the financial controller, had been promoted and transferred to the holding company in Tuas some three months ago. Since then Steven has been reporting direct to the general manager, who has made it clear last month that he will be making a strong recommendation to the board of directors for Steven to be assigned to the vacated, esteemed position of Financial Controller.

"Hey, don't be so modest lah."

"No. I'm serious. I meant what I'd just said."

"I thought this would be the feather to your cap or the blue ribbon, if you prefer."

"Don't get me wrong. If they bestow it upon me I would still take it up. It's just that accounting no longer fires me up like it used to, anymore."

Cleve shook his head and pleaded for an explanation. "What do you mean? What seems to be the problem? Are you belittling your prospect."

Steven bode his time and took another sip of the tea before tackling these toughies. "I've found a new love," he blurted out.

"You mean you're in love as in two …"

"No, not that," Steven clarified. "Writing. My new love is in writing - Short stories or novels. I read a book last week. It's about people who can't not write and it spoke volumes to me…I could feel it in my blood. It's very much like the priesthood where you have to be called. And, you know, this desire has grown somewhat more intensely of late. This could be the watershed in the future direction of my passion in life."

"Hey, hey, careful there. One can't make a living as a freelance writer in Singapore. In any case, you have never done any fiction writing as far as I can fathom. Having a love for reading works of fiction and non-fiction, as you do, is one thing. Writing seriously though is a new ball game altogether. So how can you be sure that you will excel in it ?"

Not in the least disheartened Steven's swift reply came thus, "Tell you what, I'll write a novel and a motley collection of short stories by this year-end in answer to your question. If you think it is good enough then you and I can be sure. My sister too. She cast the same doubt as you."

"Fair enough," Cleve said while glancing his wristwatch. It's getting late; we h'd better be going."

As they walked to the bus-stop just outside of Gleneagles Hospital, Steven said, "Thanks for listening."

"Any time; it was the least I could do."

"Shall we meet again in a fortnight?"

"Certainly. How about the last Friday of this month."

"Will do."

By now they have reached the bus-stop. The wait was not long; for Steven at least.

"Hey, Steve, your bus is coming already. Good night. See you then."

"See ya. Take care, man."

It was a double-decker bus. Steven decisively took to the upper deck and settled himself in a window-seat on the same side as the kerb of the bus-bay. From there he could see Cleve who instantly gave a short wave, and raised a shout to convey an afterthought, "What will be the title of your first story?!"

Without hesitation Steven replied, "How about ' Soursop At Taman Serasi' !?", as the bus sped out of the bus bay and accelerated along Napier Road into the night.