After 15 years in Singapore, the line between being a Western expat and seeing things through local eyes is blurring.

So many years here already. Foreign talent or not? Got PR or not? Blur like sotong.

The big blur began when other languages started to muscle in on my native tongue.

Instead of English, I've started spouting forth a whole new alphabet soup. It's not English, or Singlish - though that plays a part - nor even that other popular combo, Jinglish, but... Gibberish.

My tongue-twisting Gibberish arises from my expat wanderings having led me to pick up phrases from all over the place.

It's Singlish plus ill-learnt Mandarin mixed with Kiwi, Australian and British English (veering from upper-crust Bertie Wooster to cockney DelBoy, after years of floating around Brit circles.) Even schoolgirl French works its way into the mix.

And it's not just me who trots out this expat patois - or expatois, you could call it. Singapore's grip on Western expats is seen in the way some succumb to the expressive brevity that is Singlish.

Perfectly competent English speakers can't resist throwing lahs and hors around and before you know it, it's a lah a minute.

Like Singlish, my Gibberish sits atop a Chinese grammatical form: A verb; and if you must have them, both subject and object thrown in front or somewhere vaguely nearby.

Me home go. Twit Brit, he verry kaypoh one. My bleedin' Book Club kakis. Cannot tahan.

Lately, my cultural preferences are dazed and confused too. I have taken to avoiding Westerners. They are big, loud, sweaty creatures taking up vast amounts of body space and who behave in scarily unpredictable ways in group situations.

It's all about face, man. Comprenez-vous?

And I have ceased to find Asian hawker food exciting and different. It's what I normally eat. A change is to eat french fries with my chap chye and chilli chicken.

Stubbornly, I refuse to ask the hawker for fries in English, although it is what he would much rather I do.

No, I will insist on jabbering in Gibberish. It's a chance to use some mangled Mandarin (I've spent years learning it and never got past K1 standard). I mutter something about fried potatoes - suu chow. Except I must have thrown in a few more expatois oddities as, instead of fried potatoes, I got fried rice.

Fan (rice). Suu, suu-uuu (potato, potatooooo). Su su. (Nearby Malay hawker looks up. Su-su means something else to him. Who wanted milk?) Mei fan (not rice). Different one. I wanted chips, french fries, pommes frites. Aiyoh!

And where once I used to cheerfully and trustingly hand over payment without double-checking, I have now developed a deep scepticism about the price of anything.

Hawker Uncle ask for three dollars for my tah pau. Wah. That seems a bit on the nose, mate.

The next stage of expat displacement finds me wondering if I can get in touch with my inner Singaporean. Should I demand a discount? It's uncharted territory and, as I stutter forth, Hawker Uncle's demeanour goes from helpful to hardening.

I no wan fang chow. Suu chow. Gui (expensive). Me not pay ang moh price. San kuai mei you! Two bucks, can. Deal or no deal?

Uncle is unmoved. I toss two bucks on the counter. And then across his face flashes a look of deep disappointment.

At first I wonder if I have totally misunderstood the issue. Perhaps rice is more expensive than potatoes these days?

But no, I must have affronted him with my uncivilised behaviour. Far from getting in touch with my inner Ms Kiasu, I have come across as an uncouth cliche of a modern, loudmouth foreigner - the very person I vowed never to become.

I guiltily leave an extra two dollars and slink away.

I've got in touch with my pre-expat self, rather than playing a novelty character in a Chinese opera. But as I sit down to eat with a fork and spoon, a Gibberish jibe rises up.

Xie-xie (said in a mocking way). Gee, am I stoopid sucker.

The writer is a copy editor at The Straits Times and has lived in Singapore for 15 years.

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