I’m glad O Thiam Chin didn’t fall into Jack Neo-type kampong nostalgia, but his past-present tale of a one-note childhood friendship, father-son relationships and meaningless, gratuitous animal abuse is so slight, rambling, and stretched out by overwritten, predictable prose. It’s also sad to read a Penguin book riddled with grammatical errors and copyediting oversights. This is the third book of O’s I’ve read, and it’s clear he’s not for me. I wonder who his audience is, though.