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As Mr. Ham insisted that I watch The Dictator with him, having held the hard disk containing my research findings hostage, I was left with no option but to take him along to the newly-refurbished GV Jurong Point. AXS-printed ticket in hand, I took my seat (plenty of legroom there), and Mr. Ham was soon cheering wildly as the dedication to his idol The Kim came up. Fortunately, I managed to muffle him in time. There were some good laughs there, though there were moments when I thought it went slightly too far - but hey, it's Sacha Borat Bruno Cohen. Mr. Ham: I say! There was a disgusting lack of respect towards figures of authority throughout! What would this world be if people didn't cower before bearded chaps with bad tempers wielding a self-appointed extraworldly mandate? Me: Better? Mr. Ham: See, that's the trouble with you pitiful misguided sinners. That said, it has been a trying time for decent Cult Leaders as of late - can't splurge a mere few tens of millions without bringing soon-to-be-roasted-down-there secular busybodies down on your head nowadays, after expending all that effort persuading fine folk to part with their savings! "Concerted efforts to encourage entrepreneurship"? Pah! Well, the Association of Cult Leaders is certainly not going to stand by and watch idly when our membership is threatened. Although we may have our differences in execution, we will always band together when our fundamental tenets come under siege, much like our friends the corporate directors, many of their clubs to which we offer reciprocal hospitality. To this end, I have expressed my most heartfelt commiserations to the unfairly scrutinized, and taken the initiative to send a very fat envelope that shall go towards their legal fund. I am confident that they will be exonerated in due time, though hopefully not before the soon-to-be-instituted local branch of my organization can poach some members. Yes, we've been doing swimmingly in Hamerica. Me: How do you even manage to sleep at night? Mr. Ham: I'll not kid you, it was tough transitioning from all-around ruffian to Cult Leader, but after awhile you do start believing in some of the things you say. And before that, there's always Valium and a soundproof bedroom. Me: Huh? Mr. Ham: For when you wake up screaming unintelligibly in the middle of the night, silly. It worried me for a bit, till I visited the Association doctor, who cheerfully informed me that it was not uncommon at all, and diagnosed me with glossolalia; he advised me to incorporate it into my routine - it has indeed become a very popular recurring feature. Me: Mr. Ham, you really can't go on like this. Mr. Ham: Look, I'm simply meeting market demand. You don't see me whining when vacuous girls of uncertain taste toss cash and assorted undergarments at Bieber concerts instead of appreciating true art, do you? The way I see it, some are just born to be fleeced; I supply the shears, that's all.  Ahhh... that feels so good! By the way, you missed a spot over there. (Source: flickr.com) Me: That's... that's unspeakable! Mr. Ham: *pats hand* Don't worry, I believe you will eventually come around to seeing it our way. I will remember to close my eyes and plead vaguely on your behalf regularly. Queue Cue At that point, Mr. Ham began to approach me unsteadily, almost like a zombie, with both hands raised to place over me, and I decided that I had to scoot. Figuring that I had better get back in running shape, with both Mr. Ham and the IPPT now after me, I signed up for a bunch of running events. Yesterday, I discovered that collecting the race pack could take longer than the actual run (or, more realistically, walk-a-jog) itself. It took over an hour from start to end, with the queue snaking from the ground floor to a second-storey hall, and I am pretty sure that I won't take that long to cover three kilometres despite my current condition. I was suspecting that the organizers had set up a single station with some poor guy trying to find names to mark off on scattered sheets of paper, combining the worst of ICT outprocessing and wedding receptions, and was pleasantly surprised (if not by too much - I had been standing for about an hour, after all) to discover that there were no less than ten stations, each equipped with a laptop and barcode scanner. Then why did it take that long? I was soon to find out. Waved on to Counter Ten, I was served by a young lad, who exhibited an exemplary attitude given the circumstances. First, he scanned my identity card, confirming that I was, in fact, eligible to collect the race pack, and then asked for my vest size (which I had actually specified during online registration) and preferred bag colour (white, red or black). I was considering replying truthfully that I frankly didn't care, but he looked earnest enough that I said "white". He then attempted to get the attention of a "runner", or one of the kids who would receive orders, then disappear off backstage to fulfil them, dodging other incoming runners on the way. Through their combined efforts, my correctly-coloured bag arrived, in pristine white, with my vest and personalised running bib - after several long minutes. Surely there has to be a better way to do this? From what I could observe, there were several independent requirements to be satisfied:
One possible idea: Fulfil each of these separately and cut out the middlemen runners. In the first stage, everyone queues for a station according to the last digit of their NRIC number. These stations, for their part, have the corresponding running bibs arranged in numerical order to minimize search time (for once, a touchscreen with appropriately-designed inferface may be better than a laptop). They hand out the bibs and two intricately-photocopied coupons, one good for one vest, and the other good for one race pack (any colour). The participant then saunters to the vest collection area, and approaches the counter corresponding to his vest size, where a runner-turned-stationer takes his coupon and hands the vest to him in a three-second operation. Next stop is the race pack collection area, where he again goes to the counter of his favourite colour, and directly exchanges coupon for pack. Finito. No thinking or training required, one-for-one only. A few more metres of walking? Perhaps - but it is for a run... Mucho time saved waiting? Probably. Next: Groundwork
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