Chooks

This was no kind of palaver. Nothing whatsoever like, truly. Aduh! Walking around to the cafe after ArtFriend for supplies, keeping inside the shadow-line of even cloud-screened sun under the cover of the SG Management Uni veranda.... The morning had been perhaps a trifle grey-bleak; almost wintry-fog in appearance gazing from the aircon at the great outdoors. On the No. 21 crossing Kallang River it might have been haze from Sumatran burn-offs covering the prospect toward the bay, the prow of the ship atop the MBS towers looking to have run into a storm. Even KV's seemed to lack promise on the slow Monday. Some unsettling presentiment of renovations just around the corner, inevitably. Just a matter of time before sprucing up the place with new wallpaper, chandelier, a new audio system and large screen. (At present bewitching Tamil songs filtering out from the kitchen.) In any case, who in the time ahead could possibly replace the cast of the clientele for one thing, the old Tamil sons and daughters of the coolies made of such wonderful human stuff? Impossible. More than enough reason for mourning. (Grim Hades scenes were not uncommon at the best of times, and in Singapore sites aplenty.)
         Couple of young lasses in soldierly step more or less, pacing along. Of a size, colouration, matching uniforms. Not exactly military garb; not exactly. Light fawn shirts and trousers slightly darker tone. Short band of blood-red down off the shoulder and spotted on the caps, berets or baseball.
         There was an effect produced, a reflex triggered. Instinctively, at the last moment after some hesitation, when two strides beyond had been taken.
         — Ahem. Excuse me ladies!... What is this? The uniform?...
         The pair did not mind the close observation in the slightest. Easy recognizing an honest enquiry and nothing untoward. (No byplay.)
         Uniforms and dress-ups of the campy sort are a joy in this region, in Singapura almost as much as Indonesia. Kind of smart here in the present instance, wide trousers ala British WWII officer issue. Not altogether without styling.
         On the bicep the fabric had folded in upon itself. Bending close, bending, girl jiggling her shoulder obligingly in an attempt to straighten. Jiggling; bending.
         Filipina and Malay possibly, in their twenties, good together, smiling and friendly.
         — No, not police. Chicken. Like KFC.... Jollibee.... with the sounding, at the same instant the crumpled line of lettering become legible.
         Ah. Of course. Yes. A new outlet that had been sighted around Bugis Junction somewhere was it? Next to the Popeye place and the pancake. (Or was Popeye pancake and mr bean the other?) A recent player introduced on the market by perhaps local interests as the name suggested. (Ignoring the fact there were precious few bees on the equator. Where might one find one of those in these parts now?...)
         The advertisements for Jollibee must have been confined to radio and TV (as might also be guessed by the name). There had been no mention in the newspapers. McDonalds and KFC did not advertise in the newspapers either as a general rule, individual glossy brochures excepted. One had long wondered about the chooks in this region, the warehouses and conveyor feed-belts on a single chain perhaps rising up half a dozen storeys on the island, or perhaps off-shore close-by. (Ayam in numberless dishes was everyone’s default food.) The industrial scale 4D printing was still some way off.