Hickory Dickory Dock.

The clock struck one. So what?

- Hannah Choo

A MONTH AGO, I fell sick. I had forced myself to sit through a long work lunch before I gave up and went to the doctor.

Now, it was the sort of clinic that was stripped to its basics and transacted only with cash. The bill never amounted to a shock, and the doctor was this kindly old man who proudly displayed pictures of his kids and grandchildren. The only problem: he was Mr Chatty. “So, why are you sick?” “What do you work as?” “What do you write about?” Great, an interview was just what I needed. After all, I was only coughing so much, with a throat too choked with phlegm to articulate my own name.

Then when I thought I could finally go, he asked, “May I ask you a personal question?

Are you married?”

Wait. What?

He had browsed through my particulars. “You’re 28 already, you know. Better get cracking if you plan to have kids.”

I said I wasn’t in a hurry. “But what if he is?” “Uhm, can I go now?” Yeah, I wouldn’t say I’m crazy about kids.

I’d really rather talk about dogs. But that’s not to say I’m averse to the idea of having a kid or two. If it happens, it happens. That’s my motto, and to that, my smart-ass of a colleague would say, “Wow, that’s a very dangerous approach to life.”