Lambs to the Slaughter (Feb25)

Lunchtimes the Indian construction workers beneath the trees on Guillemard Corner make you catch your breath each and every time. With water flowing in the canal after rain and the humus from the ground, that locale offered added refreshment for the men today. The big plastic sheeting was stored on their site across the road and carried over lunchtimes. It was rare to ever catch the men at their lunch; in fact it had never happened. In the middle of the hot day, weary as they were, there was no appetite; evenings after work their chief meal would be taken. Rare to find the men here other than stretched in a whole range of postures out to the world, getting some much needed shuteye. A Napoleonic era battlefield it appeared, the outcome of some kind of recent, pitiable slaughter, before the boots and arms were removed by the victors. This afternoon on the bus to the Cyber a glimpse on the near side along the Geylang fencing caused an added start. What kind of figure was that there with so much uncovered flesh tone? Rising up a little from the seat in order to see properly over the rail along the footpath. What was that? Higher raising again like a jack-in-the-box had the other passengers wondering. Eventually, with some straining, the big bare belly sitting like a plumped pillow could be made out in the group. Uncommon feature in this workforce, where usually the lads were pencil thin. This chap on the contrary was tubby, with the look of a pregnant woman; fair-coloured too, smooth and hairless from a distance. The bus having stopped at the lights there was ample time to make out the scene properly. Exhausted kids at football training sometimes pulled that stunt, bringing up the end of their jumper over their head in a momentary surrender to their weariness. This man’s blue company issue polo was loose fit. Even under the shade of the giant municipal trees, sign-posted along the waterway, there was still too much light arrowing in. The other lads seemed not to have been bothered. Spavaju ko zaklani, sleeping like the slaughtered, the Southern Slavs say.