Oh! Too late! Squeeeeze–by on tiptoe. Some rough kinda chance maybe the gals would struggle to make the ID, possibly. No Ranjit in attendance might help the cause; no one to blow the cover. Sooo good! I LUV it!… Bulls’ eye inner-city Great Southern Land, Sydney most likely. Oh, FFFF! As if three wasn’t enough, a fourth joining. Early-mid 50s; immediately adjacent the youngest. What apart from voice might give the game away here? With a bit of luck not a single damn thing. Nandri… Xie xie ni for the waiters usefully muddying the water. The subtle goatee, chin beard—latter tugged by Yani last night in the midst of her throes, just as had been anticipated months ago when first being trialled. How was a Mussie gal supposed to resist a lure such as that? But that was another story. Here for these lasses it could only appear as odd, foreign, suspicious, recalling some of the terrorists on TV. Nothing really to give the hint. En route in the bus and then the queue under the veranda, a Jamaican immigrant piece in the Review on the second generation’s riding on the back of the first; or in fact riding those number of generations preceding. Baba Ruza, Grandma Rose, had told her early teen young beauty, Jos ti neznas na cije zube kruh jedes! You still don’t know on whose teeth you’re eating your bread!… During one of the disturbances with the Turks Bab and her family had fled some locale in Bosnia most likely, for the refuge of Southern Herzegovina, before finally marrying—twice as it happened after the first husband perished in the Californian mines—over the border on Uble. Deep-buried history. Right-thinking gals at least here, giving polite thanks for the plates. Diet Coke far corner. Care over body language—no cringing away. Rely on table manners. (Boy! was that ever some kinda blind if you could pull that off.) Chook’s cackle... Oh dear! Guaranteed fans of the Matildas, what else?! The NSW Premier had promised a State public holiday if the team won the upcoming final. The semi had been a record-breaking TV audience for any sporting event in the history of the country. Which of course was really saying something. Oh! Oh!… A reader would hardly believe. The late-comer facing venturing to break the ice: Where did you watch the game?… English immigrant in her case, thinner Princess Anne lookalike, and following the hair styling. Adopted the local team, first duty of assimilation. CAN’T ANGRY TODAY was emblazoned on the cover of the journal from Yogyakarta, which was rather unfortunate just now. Poised and contained like the Tamils within the walls; breathing key, through the mouth & out nostrils. Always impressive models that folk. Drove two of them; parking a bitch. Nothing in front on Serangoon Road and in the heat needed to walk a country mile. Children at camp; looking forward to their return Friday. Husbands earners of course. Best line of defence and surest was the Levantine little mou, clipped super-fine, centimetre shaved on top. Nowhere to be seen in these ladies’ circles; nowhere appeared on their getaway brochures. Sit tight! (Can’t Angry & Wrath-Bearing Tree in the folder too—neither about to get any kinda airing here.)… Clean getaway. Maybe the odd twitch or grimace, but nothing to go on.
Komala Vilas, Lt. India
Singapore 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment