Another Place and Time

Who Moved My Cheese, the quiet, studious type from yesterday set before her this afternoon at the same cafe table at the library—halfway along the row, right of the aisle.
         Hair-band, flounces over the blouse and somewhat lighter lippy than many her age favour. (The lasses here adopt more often than not.)
         Good, obedient daughter, if in the next year or two she doesn't jump a fast moving train.      
         Mouthing the new words like yesterday—that as much as the seating position and features gave the identification.
         On her side the panama making things easy.
         Various crowd. Old fellas from the neighbouring HDBs who lived through the Japanese occupation, office gals, after-school kids. Not all patrons of the library.
         Rather better than Starbucks and The Coffee Connoisseur.
         Westerners and foreign students. French in strength because of the corporate cluster.
         $4.50 latte—eschewed by the old timers who drink the local, dark kopi.
         ....Yes, the gal keen to improve her English. But this was not the main reason for that particular book. Fun the larger factor. A funny book.
         No disturbance, let alone nuisance.
         — It's really nice to chat to you.
         Unlikely the sweet will be clambering that runaway train, the bet at this stage.
         Where does a lass even in Malvern or Doncaster down there read the Cheese book at 15-16, I ask you?

Valued Customer

Finally caught the polite, thankful gesture for the return of change here at TASVEE Restaurant (24 Hours). The second hand falls high on the inside of the leading forearm which carries the notes and coins, quickly following up. Two fingers in this instance as if taking the pulse, almost in the crook of the elbow. A lingering touch and display, often with a bowing of head, as Mabel does at Joo Chait reception. In her action Mabel's hair falls forward, emphasizing the bow. The Chinese don't seem to have it as part of their exchange; Indians and Malays more so. Mabel is ethnically Chinese, but from Malaysia. Back in Footscray Faisal might have performed the same action.

Knickers Aug25

Lion City Hotel on Kallang Road, was it? $120. Two years ago it was $89. They did half-days there too, unlike Joo Chait, which specifically disclaims the practice, warning against transients, illegal sex and sex gadgets; minors and couple of other things on their plastered notices. Some of the girls waiting for their partners to sign-in might raise an eyebrow if one were picky.

         Beside Lion City stands Slimming Sanctuary, the pic of the girl on the billboard clasping her nakedness making it look easy. Not a bathing cap that; she was wreathed in flowers like a garlanded Consort. The treadmill and exercise bike in that sanctuary made burning the fat a walk in the park.

         The covered Muslim ladies got by with less grief, their curves and fatty bottoms packaged in colourful printed wraps. Frisson & one half following them on the path. And then the hidden reds, crimsons and violets under. Trays of them sat out front on the narrow walkway beside the food court, where the articles were turned over one by one for the best buy, for strength, elasticity, cut and design. 

         Nothing untoward; shopping like any other. Certainly nothing in the Qur'an forbids the husband's pleasure. Hubbies were rarely in tow along there. Effect entirely robbed sighting the articles prematurely, esp in those hashed piles.

         Lion City businesses of other kinds further along. A couple concrete lions guarding narrow entryways. International totem, old Leo.

         Food was the counter against accommodation. A filling vegetarian meal usually $3 a throw—outside the posh inner zone of course. (Seven dollar latte at TCC—The Coffee Connoisseur—yesterday by Bugis MRT & the Sing National Library. Average to boot.)

Plate-collector

The plate-collector can't be far short of seventy. A dishcloth fashioned for a head-scarf. More than half bent. Slippers five sizes too big. Inching over the tiles using her trolley as a walking aid. None pay her regard. Wiping the table while two beefheads continue their conversation giving her no mind at all. Reaching across them, still they don't see her. At our table earlier she had refused assistance. First one item, then another. No. Then inexplicably she had motioned toward the plate to the side of Nance, calling for that. Perhaps it was because of gender. Possibly she expect no male to ever lift a finger. And nor will she accept anything from them. Yet a few minutes later the Caucasian coke-drinking lad obliges her in some way that was missed. A Thank You might have come from her, something of that order. All rather puzzling. Let's see what happens with us as next cab off the rank again now that the meal is done.... But no. She circles away, wheeling off around the corner. Not through to the DISHWASHING AREA however. Doing better than the lavatory attendant perhaps. Despite there being a coin operated turnstile, this woman presumably supervises the tissue paper, cleaning too. Her seat is beside the the narrow entry. Cleaning the spills has to fall within her ambit. A pouch worn low slung on her hip for the coin. The other still not making a reappearance...... There she goes. Unsure from where she could have appeared. A real stagey entrance. Style all her own in everything she performs. NO to the first plate. Nance's move toward her plate to help her also receives a decisive NO. The plastic "Pure Soy Organic Soya Powder" container with the straw - that she deigns not only to accept: this she calls for. Nance adjusts obligingly. Only then, in her own special order, does she collect the other items one by one, scraping, tossing, sorting cutlery as she knows. Dishcloth rinsed out in a veritable soupy swill in her container attached to the trolley, before she moves to the table surface. NO once again to moving the diary. This she wants to remain in place. She wipes around it. Two-three passes this way and that. That'll do. No more. (Rather a strong resemblance to Kunie Yoshimoto as she will be in another thirty years.)

The Street - Again

— Can I have a carrot juice? No ice. Just carrot.

         — Sugar?
         — No sugar. Thank you. Namaste handclasp. All overdone of course, but how else to communicate? (The English speaking waiter. The Chinese lad who'd be so perfect for film - a hard man killer or getaway driver - doesn't parle vous, one or two of the Indians likewise.)
         The eternal foot-slog. Eternally captivating.
         Two dollars, with a gap for the missing ice. That's the deal. Can't expect carrot all the way to the rim. They're alert to that trick.
         ....Second and third take needed and only then confirmed. Head tossed back at the shock: a white tee with light grey in the motif difficult to read.
         TCHAIKO -
         At the Chinese "Green" supermarket the other day it was either Swan Lake or the Nutcracker encouraging the customers. Unlike the big bash out on the squares and street corners roundabout here. Big number rock 'n' roll bluesy blasts from the Indon performers, raunchy crooners all. Legless drunk on the other side. Thank god for his stout through-thick-and-thin companion. Mid twenties unusual skunk straight like that. Lack of aircon makes the street a must. Not to mention the expense where it's had by the slightly better off. Swiveling the head around at one's fellows down here makes the heat more bearable. Infinitely preferable to the lonely room, the confinement, trash on the box, listening to the wife. Weariness necessary for sleep in the sweatboxes. Cheeky old codger going past on his unlighted iron horse against the traffic ringing his bell, accompanying grin bright as the street light. (Knowing not to show his gap-toothed smile.) Target more than likely the old creased heavy-lidded lizard sitting over his teh tarik with one of the older, less comely mainland Chinese lasses. Zero reaction forthcoming.... Old fella like him thinking to get it up...Ho-ho-ho. This one'd be perfect for the flicks too. Bar-room owner, everything goes down at his joint.
         Number of monks each day not recalled two years ago. Often recognizing a like soul - young lads just beginning on that road. Some fair guesswork possible by the facial features. Shy ones, reticent, resourceful. Humourless, preoccupied, over-wrought. More than anything, everywhere and on every face a coming to terms; no restlessness or rebellion. Net place without a free seat anywhere. Games predominating, skype with family back home, child held up to the camera, a girlfriend or sister. Sunday, the orange-haired Chinese boy manning the desk explains. Reason for the less lively street too. Not like Saturdays and Fridays. Checking-in back home Sundays, play-up the other days. Fit for the challenge these labourers, working girls the same. Like the sixty year old cycling by with the cardboard pieces mounted up on the rack behind her. Not likely she's going to roll over and die. There is no fate that cannot be overcome by disdain, said the French prose-poet.
         The bone structures and the colours here. Endlessly one after the other trooping past in the gutter where the passage is less cluttered. You artists lay down and die. You aint seen nothing. (With your inner eye.) The aluminum can gatherer's large bin mounted on his bicycle rack, plastic bags for the extra. Good night's fossicking. The portrait painter an absurdity. All those delicate souls back home at their study, their pics in the magazines. Capturing this facet and that. Of the notables of course, Archibalds and the rest. The glimpse, the breath within. Be told you deceivers one and all, you playground playthings. Deceiving yourselves first of all. Most accept the acknowledgement; surprised to receive it some. Quite often. The note-taking a corroboration of sorts. Between the ages of twenty and mid-thirties - full strength of the working man. The Viet girls down the road are often mid-teens; unlike the Mainland Chin lasses. Yet it's the lads that captivate most of all. History and the future all contained there. Familiar unknowns. Our own gastarbiters from the late sixties/early seventies they recall, cut very much from the same cloth.

Chinatown

Chinatown. Draws all the slow-strolling seeking Westerners. Wary of the touts, knowing a bargain and what they like. Gotta love the peddlers here, salespersons par excellence. The woman tosses down the three packets of tissue onto the unopened diary. SLAP. Dear Diary!... Ouch. She wasn't to know. No beg pardons, jabbering something other than apology. Nance when she gives her the brush-off puts on her severe bulldog face and waves the hand up at her. Point taken, no offence; the Witch turns on her heels in a flash. How did she collect the goods without reaching out even her little finger?

Strutting Aug25

The tees all semaphoring mixed, scrambled messages. Terribly skewed often. Parodies of the cruelest kind often. HEROES NEVER DIE, proclaimed by a ragged, gap-toothed urchin-type the lean side of forty. Lion motif for some boutique housing development sported by one of the Indian chain-gang trooping past. I’M SINGLE BUT UNAVAILABLE declared by conservative mid-teen Malay lass in the morning, walking past with her parents (mother shrouded), who couldn't possibly guess the tease strutting along the street. (Unintentionally. Nothing of the vamp here - which of course might raise fever for needy, keen types.
         Sends even an innocent fellow reeling, battered and tossed pillar–post.
         BOYS CLUB FRANKFURT. In the wrong place the pretty lad would get a rude shock walking that one round.