Boyman

You have never before seen a President of any description in downtime rock up to his usual watering hole—in this instance Al Wadi; oasis; or in fact literally, valley (where water may be found)—in his sporty little runabout. Late Sunday afternoon we were sitting over our tehs chatting, the evening coming on more rapidly than in other parts of the globe. (On the equator all the phases of the course, dawn, noon, dusk, passed in upbeat time.) Two door glossy red soft-top, the driver like many others—perhaps of that particular stripe especially—parking right on top of the stop sign on Geylang corner. For some transgressors exceptions might be made; certainly for the President. Or at least in this case the chief Dude; the President’s paramour; legal husband & father of her children. (Often on our patch the declension was ignored, man referenced with the title himself.) First off, naturally, we surmised a young buck popping over to the fries stand for his takeout; borrowed dad’s car, roof down cos it was still hot. When the older matron in company, who was awaiting her own husband in their motor, had her gaze directed toward the newcomer, the woman initially agreed. Ya, some fast lad taking liberties. What could one expect? Slightly turned-up lip lady showed. Turned aside a moment afterward, the woman needed to be called back to see her error… Oh. Not the expected junior at all. Nor Chinese either, as might have been supposed. One of her own. Indeed a grey-beard; sere of years. Nimble, slipping out from what would be an awkward position ordinarily for a man of that age. Produced an altered visage now the companion; almost blanching, poor love. Oh! Oh!... Lady knew this man very well of course. (Little did she know her companion likewise knew.) She had not been about to divulge the ID herself, why only she could say. Oh! You too know?... More surprise still. Last sighting in the newspaper the chap in question had been giving out parcels to the poor at one of the Muslim charity events, $250 vouchers for the lucky ones. Batik shirt and dress pants for the cameras. Receiving foreign dignitaries and the like, the PM here dons his own fashionable batik; otherwise canvassing among the folk at the hawker centres, the attire invariably follows the ordinary Joe drab grey polo and off-the-rack trousers. Over in Sixth Avenue for his personal use the man keeps his own Porsche, whether cherry red has not come down.