The $5 Serangoon belt to improvise a new handle for the shoulder bag turned out to be PVC, some kind of better grade of the synthetic, thank goodness.
Not leather, the cobbler outside Peace Centre decides, after a close inspection.
Petroleum manufacture, same as plumbing pipes, wire & cable insulation; &etc.
Not as bad as it could have been. The fear had been the wise ol’ owl would dismiss the piece as completely inappropriate; unlikely to last more than a month; what was he supposed to do with that? what were you thinking, young fellow?
Third repair of the same item at this same chap’s shop—a beach umbrella on the Selegie pavement, beneath which the man squatted on a five inch stool. Pocket rocket in his early, or even mid-80s. Say die? Never.
Between jobs the chap read a Chinese broadsheet that filled out the whole of his space. Occasionally a light doze briefly overtook and on one visit a little touch on his knee was needed to rouse him.
The younger generation appeared around the corner on Bras Basah Road. Young woman entering the foyer of the generic hotel that had been commandeered during the pandemic, for the foreign workers from the dorms, most likely.
Lady in navy biz suit sprang briskly up the steps, going back to her room it must have been. In a hurry evidently, only slowing in her stride to snap the colourful plastic butterflies that had been mounted on a display-board for a spot of decoration. Perhaps particle, or even PVC again.
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