That Tranquil Saturday

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Observe your neighbourhood. You might notice something. You'll get what I mean.

Submitted: March 29, 2007

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Submitted: March 29, 2007

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A A A


 

It is a Saturday morning. I am stuck at home with nothing to ease my ennui. Casting a lazy eye at the clock, it reads 12.30pm. I am seated near the window, twiddling my thumbs in tandem with the ebb and flow of the cool breeze when I catch an evanescent view of a lady lugging several plastic bag of groceries.

Standing up to get a vantage position, the golden rays of the sun catches me square on my face, making me flinch. Adjusting my stool, I manage to shield myself from the sun's rays.

Peering out of the window once more, I observe the neighbourhood. In the verdant field below my block, a raucous game of football is in full swing. Shouts of "Pass it here!", "Goal!" drift up to my ears. One team in red and the other, in blue. Their spiffy uniforms make for pleasant viewing. The red team number seven, with the name "Ballack" printed on the back of his jersey caps a fluid and carefully crafted move with a goal. His teammates embrace him, shouting and laughing. I smile.

Through the sparse grove of trees just beyond the field, I strain to see two middle-aged ladies in deep conversation. Both are frumpy looking and the word harridan inadvertently pops into my mind. They appear to be sitting on my favourite stone bench. I know it well, having lain there every Sunday morning since I was eight. It is a smooth slab of stone lying atop two stone boulders placed at each end. The slab always feels cool to the touch. Unfortunately, graffiti artists and the brush of Nature have left their marks. The bright hues of the spray paint are a stark contrast to the dull grey of the slab, making it look horrendous. The boulders are cracked, with dark green moss growing in between. 

Switching my gaze to the playground, a wistful smile crosses my face as I let out a faint sigh. The playground holds many memories for me. I had my first fall there, where i scraped my knees trying to mimic Tarzan. It was also there where I got my first brush with my inner speed demon. I learnt how to ride a bike.

Now a new generation of lissome kids are sliding down that same "fireman" pole with the same ease and confidence I once had. The slide retain little of its original facade, the survior being a faint painted letter S that used to form part of the word 'Smooth'.

Feeling thirsty, I grab my keys and head down to the coffeeshop across the road.

Arriving there, the place is bustling with the midday crowd. A motile mix of different ethnic races. Office workers diligently slurping down steaming hot bowls of fishball noodle soup while engaging in light banter between mouthfuls. A winsome smile appears on the beverage stall-owner's face when he sees me. He warbles in a canorous voice and asks if I would be having my usual two slices of toast with sweet-smelling kaya(coconut jam) and melt-in-your-mouth butter in between, accompanied by a cup of freshly brewed tea. I decline politely and order a coffee instead. Sipping the coffee, I see over the rim of the cup a group of friends, a mixture of Chinese, Malay and Indians. Their jocular mannerisms like slapping each other on the back makes for a amusing sight. I am startled when a voice penetrates my thoughts. A Eurasian teen holding a plate of fried prawn noodles enquires if the seat beside me is occupied. He sits down promptly when I shake my head.

As I watch him gulp down the noodles with ebullient gusto, I cannot help but marvel at the sights and sounds of my neighbourhood and knowing thereafter how my Saturdays will be spent.

 

 

 


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