War of attrition (Singapore)

Re-reading blog Punishing errant husbands (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2016/06/punishing-errant-husbands-china-hong.html) has awakened the memory of what happened when I was 18.

For Oriental girls, 18 was the age to go partying — maybe 17 or 16, but not really any earlier than that out East then (the 60s).  In those days, partying meant going to someone’s house, or to a disco, and spending the evening dancing.  Some people might wander off to the corners of the garden or another room for some smooching, but no further than that.  I once found a party slightly boring about an hour into it, so I sat down on the floor against the wall, hugging one of the speakers.  Soon, a whole row of people joined me.  We spent the rest of the evening with our eyes shut, listening to Led Zeppelin and The Carpenters emanating from my lap, and had a good time.  All clean fun.

My mother, however, wasn’t so laid back about her youngest (and therefore pet) daughter coming home late.

The first time it happened, which was 10:30pm, I got home to find the lights all blazing in the living room.  (My mother went to bed at 9pm, with us children retiring to our rooms in the annexe.)  My mother was sitting upright in one of the armchairs.  A stern “Why so late?” greeted my entrance.  I said, “But, Mother, it’s only 10:30pm.”  That was accepted.

The next time, I got home at 11pm.  Mother was waiting in an armchair, “Why so late?”  “But, Mother, it’s only 11pm.”  Got away with that.

The third time, I returned at 11:30pm.  Lights all off.  Oh good.  Crept in.  A voice in the darkness, “Why so late?”  “But, Mother, it’s not midnight yet.”

The fourth time, I got home at midnight.  Gate locked.  Not a problem.  I hitched up my ankle-length, fairly close-fitting dress, and climbed up and over the gate.  The friend who’d given me a lift home, with the front of his car pointing at the gate, cheekily switched on his headlights so that the whole neighbourhood, if people were still up and happened to be looking out, could see my legs (probably even my knickers) as I climbed up, then down, the gate.

Crept into the dark living room.  No reproachful voice emerged from the depths of darkness.  My mother had given up waiting up for me to question my late return.

(Singapore, 1972)