Poor old wounded Shark over on the garden wall, ciggies his best friends. Where did all that resplendent wardrobe go, suddenly? The Widow’s kids surely could not have claimed it all. Caps, tees, shirts, trainers—none of it the cheap China product. Reduced to the uncle-wear like the local pollies, when they set out for their meet ‘n greets in the heartland. (There might possibly be a few flutters at the top of the towers in this run-up to the election Friday, the festival of democracy a national holiday.) Dull, unbranded blue polyester, sandals, plastic bags tied to his bike’s handle-bars, teh included. Poor devil might even be sleeping rough. Could not have swung the docs with the lawyers. Perhaps the poor darling had passed without warning; certainly there had been no sign of any kind in the last sightings at Al Azhar, back in June. Seven or eight years biting, without getting his teeth into the estate proper? Possibly the process was still entrain and the man remained some kinda chance. They had been together so long, despite the informality of the union (various theories proffered, from various quarters). Doesn’t have a leg to stand on otherwise, clearly. Big time come-down.
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