Marauder @ Starbs

Quart past eleven nowhere to hide from the smoochin muzik and finally an appeal to the two young Malays. Gee, the sharpness must have startled the pair. Did most definitely startle the lumpy girl in particular…. American rubbish…. How in the heck did that get out. Wholly unintended. Crickey. 
         But sir, we…. 
         A White guy was giving the pair a hard time because his hit parade—re-mastered swelling big number—was delivered to him on a plate with jam and cream complimentary on the side? Ah. Oh. But. Forgivable floundering. 
         Sorry sir. Yes sir. Sure…. 
         Darling, you are Starbucks, granted. I know. I noticed coming in. But yellow. Sulphur through and through. (She herself may possibly have been Chinese, many were hard to tell. The boy’s name tag had been sighted.) But couldn’t you go your own way like. Just do it? Be yourself, make your own tracks in the forest…(A nice Tamil girl the week before had been caught re-reading the running wolves book at KV.) 
         Become tongue-tied and confused the author himself. Irretrievable position. The Arabic script tee the day after Hari Raya might possibly have been counterproductive and spooked the kids a wee bit, whole island being on alert awaiting their turn of ructions.
         Hopefully the CCTV failed to catch, could not possibly have done under the fellatio fondling the vocalist was giving the floor….
         Many thanks lads, hands clasped at the table.
         None of the other punters immediately complaining thankfully, thin crowd in the last half hour before noon, yet to land. Corner window job interview where the lookalike girls either side shopped for the same clothes, watched the same TV and dreamt the one dream at night; around at entry two joined tables spouted Singlish corporate mimicry all ends up for an SME strategy.
         The table further along was a better bet, even three feet remove made a difference. 
         Toast Box was rather vacant too. There had been a thought passing. In the end the doll-house scale of seating, tables and décor had decided against. (The Box at Bugis five years ago wasn’t that bad, was it?)
         Thursday, taking a while to figure. At the Haig an old Indian-Malay (former predominating physiologically) coming along from further east reported Har Yassin was as expected still closed. Cat-lady auntie Helen under her umbrella pacing out the last steps for the refuge of the mall. Earlier there had been a short rain-storm that had prompted a look out the bedroom window, heat sting through the glass.