The swimmers at the Singapore Swimming Club always wondered why it never seemed to rain for more than 10 minutes at the Swimming Club. It was almost as if there was some sort of anti-rain charm over the Club, they said.

Almost.

In truth, it wasn�t an anti-rain charm, just a direct Optical Fibre link to a nondescript little building in Lower Warringin Park. Whenever rain started to fall, a set of sensors swiftly sent word, and 20km away, a wheezing old man would rise from a chair to shut off the beeping red light and stop the rain faster than you could say �supercalifragilisticeexpialidocious� one hundred and seven times without stopping.

On this day, it rained non-stop for half an hour, with lots of lightning and thunder, to the great delight of the swimmers. The main reason was that the old man had retired and gone to Hawaii to live for the rest of his life, to drink cocktails and lie on the beach in the sun while girls in hoop skirts serenaded him.

The other reason was that the fibre optic link had been neatly severed by a group of six workmen performing maintenance on water pipes. With true surgical precision, they cut cleanly through telephone wires and cable, leaving the swimming club and half a condo without the benefits of modern communication.

No problem for a pro like Lance, though. Five minutes after the foreman had the sudden irresistible urge to treat his workers to lunch immediately, Lance pulled up in his gray truck. The abovementioned truck had not always been gray, its current shade courtesy of the sun, wind, rain and earth, as well as a generous lack of trips to the carwash.

The last time Lance had tried to get the van washed, the Manager of the Petrol Station had agreed, on condition that Lance agreed to pay for new cleaning brushes for the machines.

The manager still harboured bad memories of the first time he had seen the van. All cars entering the carwash after the van had come out dirtier than they had gone in.

Unfortunately, dear reader, I digress.

Back at the front line, Lance held the two cables together and screwed his face up hard, concentrating. The cables appeared to melt slightly, releasing a thin wisp of smoke, which drifted lazily away.

All in a day�s work for Lance. Where normal repairmen had to use an oxy-acetylene torch, fresh cable and twenty minutes, Lance only needed his mind, his hands and the promise of pay at the end of the month.

err. I was going to take part in NaNoWriMo, but I look at the 50000 word limit and want to cry. This sorta thing really requires more time than I have right now. If I�m really going to write something, I�ll probably finish sometime after caroling.

Which brings me to my next point, COME FOR OUR CHRISTMAS CONCERT! 3RD Dec, 730pm. At VJ. 10 bucks only. It�ll be great, I promise.

written at 9:58 p.m.