Chap wearing a tee that needed to be fittingly
saluted. Raised arm, hand waving, two-point-five metre separation.... Easy to
see the fellow had never in his born days been hailed by a white man pen in
hand smiling warmly and appreciatively. Yanasagaran had said after generations
of toil under the murderous sun some of the Southern Tamils were particularly
dark. A little tall for the average in this case; moustache was about right.
What he was doing sauntering along the path on a Saturday morning must remain a
mystery; there was no outward sign of injury suggesting medical leave. Bright colour
tone semaphoring on the approach, with the signature white cursive branding in
a long wave high on the chest—something longer than the usual here as it
appeared.
Capitalism
in fact. (Cheap middle Geylang Net joints do not
offer the full range of fonts.) Relief as much as anything. Ducking another mental sock to the jaw. Not top-most points for wit and trenchancy, but after fully forty-four months in the midst of the co-opted Singaporean corporate peon on every street, this was sweet refreshment.
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