Down the Drain

Chinaman on a fishing expedition lookalike of the old butcher at the Haig who had run a tote on the side in his day. (Spendthrift younger brother?) The Tamil uncle at the register knew the routine without being told, chap evidently doing the rounds there every so often the same as around in Geylang Road. No shame about it, bent straight to work and carefully trawling through the plastic and cardboard muck. Often the coins snagged and one needed to be thorough. Last week a Bulgarian patron had gifted the Tamil uncle at the register a dollar that he was keeping as a lucky charm—it had not slipped him and rolled into the drain. Were it not for the wrong colour and the naked hands, give the Chinaman a pair of overalls with insignia, one might take the man for a responsible council employee. A little iron jemmy carried with him about 750mm would make a person wonder passing him on the street. In the case here outside Har Yassin unneeded, grate pulled up no trouble and a shallow pit made light work of it. Still the man was properly thorough, sifting, combing, dredging up the soggy sludge, unidentifiable muck and refuse. Lastly run along the rim with fore and middle just to be sure—sometimes coins got trapped in there. Early-mid seventies, lithe and nimble. There were social services available upon application—join the queue, interview, make sure the proper ID, doctor appointment arranged now fill in the forms, home inspection, earnings of children and domestic particulars again, call this number in a fortnight up to the 8th with you for the stamp. In Thailand and the Philippines, Laos and Cambodia, India and China, Indonesia, there was no safety net at all and elderly sleeping in the streets. Lucky Singapore.