Smart, reed-thin little guy Tungku looking a picture as usual this afternoon, and handsomer still with his goatee strands and moustache. (You look so young Tungku, someone recently flattered.) Weekly visits to the barber and daily shaving. (The latter during ablutions and feeling in the dark more than sufficient.) Only just woke, he confesses, after retiring 3 - 4am. Under the stairs at the market Tungku’s chosen corner, mixing it with some of the riff-raff who drink and trade in the illegal ciggies. A prince who declines disguise. Tales of lordly life related briefly: the blessing of parents at first biz ventures, appetite for justice and pride in the natural ability to meet all classes equally, from the beggar to the most high. Big, big flashing reminders of the chief leader of the pack in primary school, little mousey-haired & freckled Kenny Roussell. (Certainly never pronounced in the French!) What a joy it was to be invited to the birthday party at his house in Hick Street in 1966 - 7. Appalling shame at Babi’s horrid present of a striped rocket pencil-case that astonishingly, Kenny accepted with grace and allowance. A leader of boys and men indeed! Three or four times the dapper chappie reported references by petitioners of various kinds to his royal person, one police inspector among the rest, who produced his voluminous file with CCTV shots and prints. (You think it fazed the man? The Tungku was needed on-side.) A seat over in one of the off-shore islands, among other ancestral holdings elsewhere, stolen by Raffles and the British thieves. Lavender long-sleeve, black slacks and polished shoes, in the overcast hardly inappropriate at all today.
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