Something like half two empty on a Monday, any number of window tables available. No, this fireside one thanks.... Hard for the woman to find a response. Shall I cut the baguette for you sir?... Toasted sir?... Coming right up sir... Didn't notice the discolouration of the white China-made paper hat. (Not the Ecuadorian panama that had been requested as a replacement for the original worn out by sun and rain in the tropics.) Oh golly! WARNING BELLS. An Oz young biz/entrepreneur-type with an eye out for the opportunities in China. Cursed luck most cursed. Again, even sotto voce, could he and the companion have heard the accent ordering? By the looks alone no way they could be sure. No way. Lottsa Spaniards and other Mediterranos sought out the place after the economic meltdown back home. Uncertain whether older female or male companion. Without raising of eyes the blue shirt a definite — whether Julia's blue tie matching unknown. Passed on the tomato soup. Vegetarian, the helpful waitress added. Not after the item still sitting on a pile of pages on the desk as a paper-weight three months later was it? No thank you kindly. What preservatives could they use for shipment — something from the tanning industry? Gender still not clear. A bender kind of case either way.... Whichever clearly no romantic connection or coupling. Dark Filipina/Malay waitress obliging a couple of young Chin mini-socialite mums with a pic sitting beside each other babies cradled in arms. Selfies impossible. Oh dear lord! The lad mentioning the meritocracy, contrasting with the India scene where ..... (something) doesn't hold water; tough for business without the strict meritocratic order. Do you need more butter sir?... If you do let us know.... Well, some softening wouldn't go astray. Butter lumps. But that would involve more interchange, more stretchy smiles fishing for a solid tip possibly. Older couple English? newly arrived. All very French, opines Madam. Shopped for wine by the sounds of the clinking, avoid the exorbitant charges back at the hotel. Irish turns out, Northern possibly. Sparkling water: could it be delivered straight away? It was a small bottle the waitress warned in advance. There had been complaints; average sparkly at bubbly prices. Unlikely the Alps. (Paul was laid-on French—Louis XIV furniture, colonial-like staff, white aprons and smocks &etc.) Pair don't need their sandwiches warmed up, no. They're warm enough themselves skipping up from the taxi and between the malls. Holding the line on the sighting. No means no, terribly unfriendly albeit. Economics and biz both sides double barrel. And still no LRB next door at the bookshop — today makes the last issue on offer fully six weeks old. Hardship chomping with worn fangs, gaps and all. The teeth had "drifted", observed the dentist the other day with a little malicious flourish in her masterful English. (Pissed off when she was challenged on price for straight-forward front fillings where over-earnest brushing had made the gums recede. How to win?!) Thank you for coming. Make-shift purse bought from the Thieves Market almost made the old duck blanch. Byron next door to be expected of course — marketable blue-ribbon hippiedom; lottsa biz types winding down in caftans there now no doubt, shit yeah. Some of the latter tones strongly suggested femme, though countervailing had the odds the other way. No need confirm; gender unimportant in such cases. Watch this exit boys. Was it fully 20 minutes? The upper limit. Ion for good quality sandals. These native chappals are strictly meant for the house.... A shit-hole industrial city the poor unfortunate go-getter had to endure. Making $$$$'s on the Mainland required sacrifice, hoops to jump, not all picture-postcard picnic for the album.
Two Hours Later
Successful in the end three malls later: Ion, back to Takashimaya (where Kinokuniya and Paul are housed adjacent each other) and finally Paragon. (Yes indeed, the name of the last took some swallowing three years ago. Yes indeed no put-on. Mui Mui one side of the entry and something else the other. Not quite what the ancient Greeks had in mind. Transformed in the Democratic Republic of Sing.) Tangs would have been last cab off the rank as Lucky Plaza was investigated the week before. All five malls stand in a convenient narrow band on the absolute red-hot gold-plated A1 Orchard Road shopping strip, top of the retail global pops. (At least according to a French survey possibly like many other competitions commissioned by interested parties.) Somewhere thereabouts, not too far distant, where also the Orchard Mandarin Hotel stands, one would find Orchard Towers, within the halls of which the famous Four Floors of Whores (sic.). Nothing shady there: a registered bone fide business. Check online for confirmation and address.) In order to find sports-wear the prime fashion and jewelry boutiques at street-level at all three malls needed negotiation; needed to be passed, the light of the advertising boxes bathing, customers entering brushed against, perfume sniffed. Oh glory be, the well-preserved and maintained middle-aged in their fashion leisure-wear, cosmetics, cosmetic surgeries, stomach rings almost visible protruding. Fashion concentration camp victims padding by with vacant, unseeing eyes, dear weather-blasted angels. For those with some will-power guaranteed weight-loss outlet discretely positioned on one of the upper levels of Takashimaya encouraged with the example of a young lad on the window advertising his 8 point something kilogram achievement in so many short weeks. Hubbies dutifully followed more confident wives in their familiar domain; others were taking a breather on benches while their partners kept up the hunt. The young veterans of the mirrored and tiled halls, plugged most of them, cried out for pity. They had been wheeled through this precinct in their prams and joined mummy and daddy on their shopping expeditions and the recovery lunches that followed. The cultural manufacture powerfully, awesomely omnipresent, a uniformed army in strict disciplined formation could not outdo these battalions. Lazy slow Monday what was more. The sound-track on the Mandarin-Takashimaya corner had only been given a single short burst: I WANT TO FEEL.... the vamp implored. I want to feeeel.
Online World of Sports was listed as within the Ion tower. No such luck. The girl at the Info desk knew all about short-term tenancies disappearing down the gurgler. They had adidas and .... something-something else under Ion's tent; not World of Sports sir. Low-end shopper: the charm emission was only so-so; perfunctory, lass barely trying, hardly any widening of the eyes and teeth no-where to be seen. But the Net says…. I just checked this morn..... Very sorry. Have a nice day sir..... Takashimaya had fuck-all of sport. One outlet only whose name slipped like fat from a chop on the barbie. Even though the boy said he was Not very sure — usually meaning No fucking clue — in fact the Paragon tip came up trumps: there on the Directory the fourth floor on the other side of the street, enter beside Mui Mui, the prize: Four Floors — no, World of Sport. And indeed a whole lot more of the same from which to choose for the convenience of shoppers. Compare and save. KEEN trekking sandals priced at $169, 20% can. Shit-load of dollars of course, but customers came back eight years later for a replacement shoe when finally their last had worn out, said the nice young pimply Tamil. Meaning the innocent had heard the story of satisfied customer purchases that had been transacted while she was in middle primary school out in Jurong. Never mind. Precisely what a man in need wanted to hear. The Wings, good as they proved, were too blasted hot on the equator. Excellent three years of pounding wear, hundreds and hundreds of kilometres unraveling phrases and opening paragraphs. It was time. The native chappals needed to be retired, pair Number Two repaired 3-4 times to date. (Not the same product as those hand-crafted by Mr. Yahya's father down in Geylang years ago.) It was past time. Next month Java, maybe even Bali briefly, lots of foot-slog. (Toe-capped.)
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