10-15min. sitting you wondered at the blare. Seemed to be emanating from the toilet block, unusually. Nuisance of a thing pumping like that, golden oldies forever and a day without let up. The place could not possibly function without this syrup dished up for the populace. It was a conspiracy that could be managed in a small city-state, far more effective than traditional propaganda. The supermarket would need to be abandoned altogether shortly, it was simply unendurable within those walls. One day before you knew it you’d find yourself tearing down the aisles swinging your arm through the shelves one after another. Horrid vomit-inducing 60s piddle that sent you reeling, —well, that truth to tell one had kinda liked in junior years before some little shafts of light had penetrated the mental thicket. That was one thing, the particular genre; in the supermarkets the added on top was the chipmunk announcers sledgehammering and pulverising with their patter. Murder most foul and dastardly. Seemed almost inhuman. Imagine a boy or girl in school back in the day squeaking like that! Sounded like radio, when in fact it was produced by the chain specifically for in-store broadcast…. Don’t fooor-get tooo re-MEM-ber me. You actually sang along with that lollipop once upon a time, you did, you did don’t deny it; or at least in your head you did after it had stuck there like gum to your shoe. I STILL re-MEM-ber you…. They caught you out here, forced you to recollect your primordial, pitiful self.... Eventually the true culprit responsible for the broadside at the last Haig row here swung by to reveal himself, an old dapper Malay of the usual form, though in this case an unfamiliar in that neighbourhood. Recent trim and coal dye; mid-seventies passing for early or just-turned. New barely laundered black polo bearing lustrous gold braiding. Got himself a fancy fold-out bicycle the dude and a sound system that would demolish a housing tower were it deployed on one of the Voids. If he had won the lottery obtaining a driving license was outta the question for this old cowhand. Chap escorted his shiny wheels like a fine lady on his arm, by the front table and slowly ambling up the path. At that first table two or three heavy Batam gals in their long gowns were being shared by the crocs on the stools. Whisperings, squeezed out modest smiles, waiting and hanging chiefly along there in the usual way. As the songster drew one foot after another by the group pulling his wheels, the man turned toward the general assembly and like the crooners of old, like the old uncles on the talent shows and the faded stars on TV reprising their hits of yesteryear, the Uncle here gleamed ivory bright. Some of the old men had retained their own choppers and almost uncannily perfect condition (it was often difficult to pick the falsies). With the benefit of that radiance Unc here mouthing clearly and unmistakably the more plangent segment of the old song’s refrain, —AND the love…. that USED…. to be. Uncle had numerous former loves near at hand in memory, none had slipped. Judges on TV talent shows exhorted contestants to put more feeling into their performance, pour out the heart’s burden like they really meant it. This uncle channeled without trouble all the sweets he had collected and given over the years with deepest conviction, the most jaded judge would have credited. The volume of the music box was too loud to attempt challenge (r ocket-ship class batteries); even a professionally prepared younger throat might have failed in that regard. The miming here would have been impossible for a viewer to discern on any kind of screen. If the man had meant the lyric for one of the Indo ladies she would need to make a claim herself in order to seize as Unc had cast into the general body of the hall, well over the heads of the near group.
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