21:03.

3am, Geylang, I stopped besides a row of durian stalls. The fruit uncle asked me if I was from China. Umm. Then he said I look like Teng Lijun. Double umm.

Woodlands, 3.30am, at my void deck, I paid the cabbie $20.25, wished him a good night, then tottered off - denim jacket over one arm, bulging black sling bag on the other side of the equation, and both hands clutching tightly to the red plastic bag that held my purchases.

My brother hates durians.

And of course, it was 3.40am on a Wednesday morning and my loved ones were asleep. My eyes were dry, my contact lens on my right one dried out, and my stomach protesting against the various dishes I consumed earlier uncharacteristically.

I opened my door, careful not to make the plastic bag rustle too much. I gingerly left the durians on the mat, dumped my bag and stuff on the sofa and rushed to lock the gate. Hey, it was 3am. The world seemed dead but... well, but.

In order to ensure my dear brother did not get unpleasant whiffs of the durians, I bought my wares to the little service balcony outside the kitchen and shut the adjoining door. So at 3.45am on this Wednesday morning, I was opening four big durians with my bare hands and transferring the gain to tuppawares.

Once they were in the fridge, I slipped out to throw the two bags of hollow husks down the shared chute. Thankfully, there were no lizards or cockroaches lurking there.

I walked quietly and fast back home, locked up. Sniffed around to make sure the house has not been taken over by pungent aroma then washed up, cleaned up and went to bed.

Mission accomplished.