Nine years on

Supper conversation tonight:

End-of-the-world Scenario: You're 35. You're still in the civil service. You make 7 - 8k a month as a Deputy Director. You work unearthly hours - you eat, breath, hell you shit work. You might be married, you might not be. Chances are, you still live with your parents, and if you don't, you live in a crammed rathole. You meet up with your friends. Those guys you knew from school. Those who began just like you did, two feet on the ground and teeth-grit determination. Difference - they're lawyers, they're i-bankers, they're consultants. They took that path you never knew. Never could know because those bastards had you by your balls.

You'll remember that nine years ago, when you first broke into the "late twenties" bracket, you had supper with these guys at that corner coffeeshop that served cheap but good Teochew porridge into the wee hours of the evening. These days, the disparity slaps you in the face. Worse, it's a bitch slap. You didn't realise that nine years ago, they were already making twice what you made every month. Now, they were making thrice or more. Compound interest added, these guys were living the stuff of dreams. Your friends, yes those real people, made it into the tv while you were still on your second-hand couch with coke stains and bits of potato chips tucked deep in its recesses. No point channel-surfing, bozo.

But the clincher is that you know the fight's over. They rung the bell while you were out stone cold on the arena mat. KO. Game over. Go home, loser. You never stood a chance for the first six rounds because you were blindfolded and had your wrists and ankles bound and were told that it was actually good for you. What a load of bull-crap.