Adjacent table at KV the other day a couple of Indian lads
chatting over lunch, fattie with a girly voice and his opposite number bearing
a questionable SPUNK tee. Pair was planning an attendance at a comedy film that
evening it seemed; considering the merits of the different Indian eateries
roundabout and their offerings and conferring on immigration procedures. PR
here was, what? Seven years?... No, ten…. Ah, ten. You are here how long?...
Nine, but not putting in the application just yet because....
Escaping
Sh-tholes and joining the rush to our side with clean streets and water, clean
air, orderliness, amenity, plentiful comedy and other entertainments from which
to choose.
This afternoon on the bus returning from Feidu an Indian father was starting in early with his little three-year-old: Not “Can I. Should I press the button….”
With tuition fees prohibitive, the so-called better schools difficult to access, PSLE torture in Grade 5 that determined the educational route and the course of life, the man was right to jump in at every opportunity to give his little fella a fighting half-chance.
Cousin V. a few months ago at Vivo City, a container ship skipper, father of three boys and striving manfully for them, told his aim was to help the lads attain a place in the jungle somewhere above the common ruck. With the Renault he had recently bought the older pair to share, V. explained, they would be able to screw any.... girl—to use more acceptable language for English readers—of their choice along the Montenegrin coast. In his own day there had been precious little of that luck for V., and, memorably, once the poor boy had been played out by a pretty Serb whose family sought good time holidays on the water’s edge at discount rates. Earlier years V. had also attempted immigration for the sake of the kids, but had missed his chance.
This afternoon on the bus returning from Feidu an Indian father was starting in early with his little three-year-old: Not “Can I. Should I press the button….”
With tuition fees prohibitive, the so-called better schools difficult to access, PSLE torture in Grade 5 that determined the educational route and the course of life, the man was right to jump in at every opportunity to give his little fella a fighting half-chance.
Cousin V. a few months ago at Vivo City, a container ship skipper, father of three boys and striving manfully for them, told his aim was to help the lads attain a place in the jungle somewhere above the common ruck. With the Renault he had recently bought the older pair to share, V. explained, they would be able to screw any.... girl—to use more acceptable language for English readers—of their choice along the Montenegrin coast. In his own day there had been precious little of that luck for V., and, memorably, once the poor boy had been played out by a pretty Serb whose family sought good time holidays on the water’s edge at discount rates. Earlier years V. had also attempted immigration for the sake of the kids, but had missed his chance.
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