Ice cream cone.
“Hey, new t-shirt ah?”
Blushing slightly, I answered in the affirmative. It was my first time putting it on. At home, family members had already done a double take before I left for work in the morning.
I was not expecting to be subjected to a similar type of interrogation at work, however. But that is the deal with Fridays usually; having battled looming deadlines, delivered sales talk at supersonic speed and pored over endless amounts of paperwork, we let our guards down and become increasingly casual by the end of the week.
“The words here… what do they say?”
“That’s the name of a band, yep.”
“T-h-e-n-a-t… ah, I’ve got it: The Nation!…” She gave me a blank look. “The Nation?”
She was close. It was not the gravest of errors, given the admittedly curly design of the annoying font type that was used on the t-shirt, but the unintentional bastardisation of the band’s name had my mind screaming “Nooooooo!” in that long, miserable wail reserved for those who have just seen a precious diamond earring spiral down the hole in a sink. Thankfully, I recovered quickly enough to correct her comment.
“Aiyah, it’s too artsy-fartsy to be read properly lah… You always wear these kind of tees wan.”
Eh, do I, really? Oops.
Later that evening, I went home, took a good look in the mirror, and made doubly sure the words on my new t-shirt clearly spell out, “The National”.