Night-shift Martyr

Tubby with his yellow apron on the night shift must have trudged up early tonight. A recent hair-cut. All the lads at Reaz receive regular trims from the barber shop that was run by a branch of the family down in the ground floor well below the eatery. The red and yellow cap tonight that matched Tub’s Maggi apron had not been sighted previously; blue nylon short-sleeved shirt. Tough climb up the incline nights and not a happy camper on first landing Tub. At home at the bottom of the dark lane there was no one to wash, cook or warm Tubby’s bed. (Overcast, cool drizzly days upon us now at the tail-end of the year.) First notice of the chap's presence tonight was the strange half-yawned tune from the entry to the severy behind. Allahu'akbar in a tone certainly never heard before. Resting on the counter and head back-tilted, the cap pulled from his brow and scratching beneath, the man gave out the battle-cry of the suicide bombers and other martyrs just to himself there in a moment of release.