Earlier in the
morning coming out the scent of cut grass along the central walkway of the Haig
blocks something like a micro-forest unexpectedly. Fifty metres on the three
young Indian or Bangla lads on the western side, chaps shearing the in-fills
between the paving where the islands held minute portions of green. Up on the
little mounts swinging their clippers, fuel tanks strapped to their backs and
cloth improvised for head-cover. A few square metres of fresh cuttings enough
to fill the air and remind of the recent and more remote past—suburban
lawn-mowing, a paddock in the country, school athletic events that marked the
end of winter.
Three hours later coming down for lunch it was a girl heading across on the first branch of the path that caught the attention, her shapely legs initially. Back-pack, shorts and hair tied back in some kind of way that restrained her whipping pony-tail. (For that particular frisson there had been the athletic lass the evening prior on her usual run along the side-path down to Katong, black tail lashing across her muscular shoulders accentuated by her sporting white top with arm-holes that met in a thin band of stretched fabric in the middle of her back.) This afternoon’s girl less shapely and what allure was achieved countermanded by her Chinese Grannie gait. Who had taught the poor love to swing her arms like that not by her side forward march, but rather across her pelvis in front like an old maiden aunt? Was it truly possible within her own culture the lads would find that captivating, prompt them to set off in chase in order to get a word in and make a date? (No Western woman walks like that wager any of you a dollar.)
Three hours later coming down for lunch it was a girl heading across on the first branch of the path that caught the attention, her shapely legs initially. Back-pack, shorts and hair tied back in some kind of way that restrained her whipping pony-tail. (For that particular frisson there had been the athletic lass the evening prior on her usual run along the side-path down to Katong, black tail lashing across her muscular shoulders accentuated by her sporting white top with arm-holes that met in a thin band of stretched fabric in the middle of her back.) This afternoon’s girl less shapely and what allure was achieved countermanded by her Chinese Grannie gait. Who had taught the poor love to swing her arms like that not by her side forward march, but rather across her pelvis in front like an old maiden aunt? Was it truly possible within her own culture the lads would find that captivating, prompt them to set off in chase in order to get a word in and make a date? (No Western woman walks like that wager any of you a dollar.)
No comments:
Post a Comment