Mr. T. T. closed for the second day. Yesterday was Har Yassin, the fat Tamil owner hanging around like a bad smell. Should the old dragon find you sitting on a $1.30 teh at the front table newspaper spread, watch-out! A couple of weeks ago the man enquired the food order. Rounded back a few minutes later with same again, this time adding fingers to the mouth case you weren't understanding. Third the nice prata-maker was enlisted, ordered to join the siege.
— Makan? Something to eat?
Money-hungry old devil. The labour that he sourced from the homeland was treated like the indentured from the good ol’ days.
Wifi at Starbs. Kampung Cafe around in Joo Chiat Road offered the same, but with curtains screening the street, backless stools and mediocre teh, it had to be Starbs.
10:15 usual dozen plus dotted at the tables, laptops sprung. Reading a newspaper within those walls was unusual, no need fisticuffs at the stand in the corner. One's own paper was always preferable of course and Auntie Helen had become accustomed to her lunchtime copy. (Feline stories aplenty: the therapeutics of cats, cat cruelties, cat cafes &etc. Always something for Helen.)
Starbs in the familiar livery. Sixteen Mr Teh Tarik outlets in the Republic; must be into the hundreds Starbs, Coffee Bean, Coffee Connoisseur, as well as some independents last few years in the hipster quarters.
Woollen hoodies. Collared zipped windbreaker. In the squatting culture loads of legs brought up under bottoms, long clean limbs that were certainly unavailable down at Mr. T. T. and the others in the Malay quarter.
The young mop-top Korean with the machine-gun jabber last time in his favourite chair. Returning from town that same afternoon 4hrs later the lad had remained holding his ground in the window. Earlier signs discouraging long-term tenure had since been removed at Starbs.
The chap had been making progress with a local lass. That Singaporeans were muddling up the north and south of his country was a concern. Now the attack on the American Ambassador in Seoul would give more nuisance.
Did you want brekkie with that?... Afternoons the enquiry was for up-sized beverage, only 50 cents extra. Newcomers hailed on entry.
The night had been palled by news at home of Arth’s struggles. Up until recently Arthur’s voice had countered the reports of his wasting away. The recent remedy gotten from the Net had been abandoned; there had been nausea and loss of appetite. The coming week some kinda brew that included McKenzie's Baking Soda & molasses was going to be tried; pictures online showed shrinking melanomas. A fortnight since the last call, suddenly the suggestion of gun-to-the head without improvement. Arth’s old .22 was still wrapped in oilcloth in the house somewhere.
Mite hard the tunes at the best of times. On a couple of occasions when some serious work had been brought along the guys immediately obliged lowering the volume. Once or twice when the same worker was struck the courtesy was delivered unasked.
C&W instead of Frankie and Louie covers mornings. (Frankie of course never rose early.) The twang at that hour made balancing a full cup dicey.
This particular sample was unfamiliar, Republican hit parade of the kind Bush & Cheney would play in the pick-ups rounding up the steers.
First serious plunge of the knife was Family—chorus, refrain and ripe rhymes.
It's Family, It's Family across the scale. Family.
None of the bent heads bothered in the slightest. Not a flicker. If they weren’t enjoying there was certainly no blood-boiling.
Usual 25% Caucasian, with Eastern Euro regulars. The Ruskies and Poles in Singapore always surprised, part of the "foreign talent" that was upsetting the locals.
Every time a TV drama queen from the States, present case big haired with turbo baby-stroller, late to motherhood.
Yes my love? More chockie muffin for bubs?
Scarves or caps were exceedingly rare at Starbs. (In Malaysia there may have been social action against the corp.) Even hipster or professional Malays kept away, though sometimes it was difficult to tell the Chinese apart from the Malays, in the office attire especially. Uncomfortable sitting against the glass while one of the familiars from the bottom end passed by.
The Chinese pressed camouflage shirt and steel-rims must have parked in the basement. Wife had purchased khaki knickerbockers and matching sandals. Laptop; pressed for time.
What had you straightening in the chair was the melted cheese focaccia. Would have been good to see the slice before the heat had been applied. Gee. Warnings about cardiac arrest had passed over the top of that dyed head.
The while someone had flicked the volume. Up to that point the piece had pitter-pattered drawled unobtrusively, before the shooting finale.
HALLELUJAH!
In the comic book version the tables and chairs were blown into a pile in the corner.
Even more profound a few moments later was the descending tremolo that carried the notes so far one could have gone into the mall for a pee, returned to the chair and still had time for the crossword.
....LLLLUUUUUUUUUU....JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH.
There had been a recent report on free diving where exponents held their breath underwater ten minutes.
Flickerlessness. Not the merest sign in any quarter. Conversations proceeding.
Some heads had turned from the concourse outdoors. The water jet-cum-fountain was still not operating at the newly opened One KM Mall. Water restrictions were pending after the almost entirely dry nor'east monsoon.
The Korean's girl finally showed, lad properly occupied now. Back home in the south of the Peninsular they were likely accustomed to this kinda thing.
Granddad Focaccia had been replaced by another pair of Caucasians sweating in striped long-sleeve, soaking up that number unperturbed.
No point getting flustered. Carry on. Carry on regardless. (The locals had adopted the British phrase as their own.)
Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2020
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