The terminal cancer
and mental patient (carrying the sign front and back hanging from his neck)
stopping for a chat with his squawking parrot on his shoulder. The latter had
been gifted by the local zoo after the man’s $50k bequest, he said.
Snatches of love and happiness songs, old favourites—You are my sunshine, my only sunshine—and rather artless self-composed that carried the same uplift.
Nice chap. As ever it was difficult to confront the raw, gaping holes in the middle of his sunken face where once his nose had been.
There were morphine vials in the bag on his stroller which he had shown a couple of years ago.
Snatches of love and happiness songs, old favourites—You are my sunshine, my only sunshine—and rather artless self-composed that carried the same uplift.
Nice chap. As ever it was difficult to confront the raw, gaping holes in the middle of his sunken face where once his nose had been.
There were morphine vials in the bag on his stroller which he had shown a couple of years ago.
— No need again, Uncle.
In twenty minutes five or six people had stopped with contributions for his collection, almost all slipping in the notes from behind without troubling the man and he not even noticing.
The chap collected not for himself, he explained, but in order to provide for those in need. For his own part he had more than enough money. What he sought now was some worthy recipient for one or two hundred thousand dollars he wanted to bequeath. Being assured of genuine need was important and he preferred the larger sums in order to make a real difference to beneficiary.
This would be the last Ramadan weekend market day. Much traffic, many shoppers with trolleys and their own large bags from home in some cases. Fasters most of them, some of the children struggling and looking the worse for wear. One old joker manning a stall on the street who had been bought a couple of tehs in recent days came over offering a Tiger, or Carlsberg if that was preferred.
Three or four niqabs passing might have been Indo maids, always a little startling, even now. And alluring of course; the underlying eroticism percolating. Small wonder the Parisienne fashion houses had taken the cue from this attire. Any kind of lady, regardless of age, fitted out properly in the various layers and covers, could be assured of good, earnest attention.
A young wife came across to the adjacent table to return change from shopping to her Hubbie relaxing in his chair chatting with a pal who had come up. Under thirty the pair, the woman carrying their baby in harness on her chest. With the crowd the stroller was best left behind with the man.
Two red tens and assorted the woman presented, coins on top and Hubbie fumbling a little collecting.
What kind of monthly allowance was extended the wife here? A number of men in the neighbourhood had mentioned the arrangements, usually business chaps who proudly managed a sizeable sum to keep the womenfolk happy.
Far, far too much Summit piffle in the newspaper. All the kudos claimed by the locals for the privilege of hosting the occasion. Cannons at some location, a great number of them from British times, had colourful flowers inserted by the event managers. The attention to detail was faultless. Foreign work crews had been labouring around the clock to ensure peace had its very best chance.
At which iconic site would the two leaders have their photographs taken? There was a summary of the likely options. Melania would have been coming with the President had she not been recovering from a difficult surgery, almost three hours. What dishes might be served the two leaders? There were a dozen signature delicacies among the options, some highlighted by the celebrity TV Food man when he had visited Singapore, chap who had hung himself in a hotel room in Paris the day before.
One safe bet was no round for the President on one of Sentosa’s exclusive courses. Even late afternoon under added lighting the heat would have proved far too oppressive. In Florida there must be particular periods in the year that allowed.
An admission of a thought occurring through the flipping of the pages and observing the parade—possibly deep unconscious prompt from out Washington way: the painted lips under the scarfs in particular left one wondering about the force of the clamp in the various cases. It was never easy to tell in advance of course in any instance. Part of the intrigue and mystery. For the girls there was size, duration and quality always hanging as question. (What was that cheeky witticism naughty lasses shared? On their side it was like the snow: one never knew how thick it might be, nor how long it might last.)
A second similarly aged lad now found doing the honours relieving the partner of some of the burden on the Sunday at least by carrying the tot on his own chest.
There were numerous doting young husbands among this new generation of Muslims—hand-holding, carting for the women, petting in public. Were the old Arabs like the famous Montenegrins, mounted on their camels/donkeys, while the woman carted home the firewood on her back? In the land of plenty on the equator some of the sharpness of the old patriarchy had never taken root, one guessed. (Therefore the Wahabi complaints about the divergence of Islam in these regions.)
A lady tying her daun ketupat onto the arm of her little trolley. The green leaf was an essential ingredient for the feast on NY — Hari Raya, Eid. A chap at the next Mr. T. T. table had reminded of the matter and given the name.
Expert tying. Was this a kampung gal, married here from Indo, or the Peninsular perhaps?
Seventy-five and eighty years ago Bab and Aunt Andje during their hawking through Kotor and Novi had made expert knots like this woman. In the early years in Melbourne it had been the same for goods on the carrier behind the seat of the bicycle. In the first months here the old Chinese grandmas and grandpas turning the wheels on their ancient bicycles on Geylang Road had returned one to feather-light dreamy days of the past. Friends who used down in Melbourne needed to resort to illegalities for such comfort and ease.
In twenty minutes five or six people had stopped with contributions for his collection, almost all slipping in the notes from behind without troubling the man and he not even noticing.
The chap collected not for himself, he explained, but in order to provide for those in need. For his own part he had more than enough money. What he sought now was some worthy recipient for one or two hundred thousand dollars he wanted to bequeath. Being assured of genuine need was important and he preferred the larger sums in order to make a real difference to beneficiary.
This would be the last Ramadan weekend market day. Much traffic, many shoppers with trolleys and their own large bags from home in some cases. Fasters most of them, some of the children struggling and looking the worse for wear. One old joker manning a stall on the street who had been bought a couple of tehs in recent days came over offering a Tiger, or Carlsberg if that was preferred.
Three or four niqabs passing might have been Indo maids, always a little startling, even now. And alluring of course; the underlying eroticism percolating. Small wonder the Parisienne fashion houses had taken the cue from this attire. Any kind of lady, regardless of age, fitted out properly in the various layers and covers, could be assured of good, earnest attention.
A young wife came across to the adjacent table to return change from shopping to her Hubbie relaxing in his chair chatting with a pal who had come up. Under thirty the pair, the woman carrying their baby in harness on her chest. With the crowd the stroller was best left behind with the man.
Two red tens and assorted the woman presented, coins on top and Hubbie fumbling a little collecting.
What kind of monthly allowance was extended the wife here? A number of men in the neighbourhood had mentioned the arrangements, usually business chaps who proudly managed a sizeable sum to keep the womenfolk happy.
Far, far too much Summit piffle in the newspaper. All the kudos claimed by the locals for the privilege of hosting the occasion. Cannons at some location, a great number of them from British times, had colourful flowers inserted by the event managers. The attention to detail was faultless. Foreign work crews had been labouring around the clock to ensure peace had its very best chance.
At which iconic site would the two leaders have their photographs taken? There was a summary of the likely options. Melania would have been coming with the President had she not been recovering from a difficult surgery, almost three hours. What dishes might be served the two leaders? There were a dozen signature delicacies among the options, some highlighted by the celebrity TV Food man when he had visited Singapore, chap who had hung himself in a hotel room in Paris the day before.
One safe bet was no round for the President on one of Sentosa’s exclusive courses. Even late afternoon under added lighting the heat would have proved far too oppressive. In Florida there must be particular periods in the year that allowed.
An admission of a thought occurring through the flipping of the pages and observing the parade—possibly deep unconscious prompt from out Washington way: the painted lips under the scarfs in particular left one wondering about the force of the clamp in the various cases. It was never easy to tell in advance of course in any instance. Part of the intrigue and mystery. For the girls there was size, duration and quality always hanging as question. (What was that cheeky witticism naughty lasses shared? On their side it was like the snow: one never knew how thick it might be, nor how long it might last.)
A second similarly aged lad now found doing the honours relieving the partner of some of the burden on the Sunday at least by carrying the tot on his own chest.
There were numerous doting young husbands among this new generation of Muslims—hand-holding, carting for the women, petting in public. Were the old Arabs like the famous Montenegrins, mounted on their camels/donkeys, while the woman carted home the firewood on her back? In the land of plenty on the equator some of the sharpness of the old patriarchy had never taken root, one guessed. (Therefore the Wahabi complaints about the divergence of Islam in these regions.)
A lady tying her daun ketupat onto the arm of her little trolley. The green leaf was an essential ingredient for the feast on NY — Hari Raya, Eid. A chap at the next Mr. T. T. table had reminded of the matter and given the name.
Expert tying. Was this a kampung gal, married here from Indo, or the Peninsular perhaps?
Seventy-five and eighty years ago Bab and Aunt Andje during their hawking through Kotor and Novi had made expert knots like this woman. In the early years in Melbourne it had been the same for goods on the carrier behind the seat of the bicycle. In the first months here the old Chinese grandmas and grandpas turning the wheels on their ancient bicycles on Geylang Road had returned one to feather-light dreamy days of the past. Friends who used down in Melbourne needed to resort to illegalities for such comfort and ease.
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