Aircon X

The Great Christmas Village was still being erected in the forecourt of Ngee Ann City, a merry-go-round out front of Tower No. 2 playing Auld Lang Syne. (Spell check deleted an extra “e.” Good luck to the locals with that favourite number beneath the aircon on the Eve.) Pacing along the stretch by the department stores and then from the window of the bus there had been no sign of the Disneyfication that the church groups were complaining about; nor a single elf or reindeer visible what was more. It seemed very odd. In the front window at Paragon, in the Raoul display it may have been, an eye-catching heavy knit in bright verticals on a cream base lured wives of men lucky enough to be able to take the season up on the Swiss Alps or Monaco. At Takashimaya the tree inside the entry was complete, all the scaffolding removed and a hundred or more illuminated decorations hung. Up at ski lodges in the Northern Hemisphere tall firs laced with snow would catch moonlight in a similar effect. One recalled the Kiasu man Johnny Lau, wondering whether he may have been responsible for the arrangement. (Johnny had worked on McDonalds and 7Eleven briefs here, which cachet could easily segue to the giant 3 - 4 storey fir that always drew the cameras.) Slow on a Monday afternoon, understandable with the event still a full month away. As usual tourists from the region seemed to predominate: Indonesians easy to pick, Mainland Chinese and Filipinos. Many places in China would still lack the full Christmas production. A Paul baguette would suffice on this particular day. Usually there was a brief pass through Kinokuniya before the stop for the bread, then prior to the bus the raid of the essential oils at Miu Miu Paragon. A sudden fit of cowardice had taken hold at the prospect of what may have awaited among the stacks at the bookstore—elaborately outfitted animation characters from the best sellers, celebrity chefs with egg-beaters on stage, minstrels trooping through. You could be caught completely unawares even a week before the end of November. Indoors at Paul the maitre’d in his baker’s coat had recently opted for muted orange, or mustard-loquat perhaps; just a wee suspicion of implants. A latte might have decided the case one way or the other. In recent months it had been difficult to venture again at Paul. Paul posed problems difficult to ignore. One could take a chair near the table where three years ago Neet had made her entry and sat nervously for coffee. What a presence she had made, never an inkling of her own beauty among all the Parisienne branding. Within a minute she had begun begging for departure, or at least never again to be forced to meet there. I beg you P…. Unforgettable. There was never any kind of prospect for the ladies at Paul. (Was it Orwell who said attempting to shag a rich woman would entirely unman a man of principle? A man of democratic leaning.) Sitting against the wallpaper surrounded by the fawning staff, beneath the faux chandeliers. The faux fireplace with its implements on a stand, the windmill prints. (Perhaps in fact the campaigne did have windmills dotted around after all? It could not have been a confusion of the designers surely.) At the takeaway counter a pair of Chinese staff were squabbling and ignoring a customer in a fine panama. The lad inside the door at Juicy by the escalator had sagged in his posture and would need to rise from a depth at an entry. Before scurrying off a mental note was made for proper survey of the area nearer the time; firm resolve and no dilly-dallying. The translation for an authentic tropical Christmas always held interest.