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Array
(
[sid] => 177568
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Bedok Terrace Gossip (The Feeble Fix-it Guy)
[time] => 2014-01-11 00:29:55
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Steadfast, every single morning a wry, scrawny man some 50 odd years of age visits the slightly derelict house diagonally across the street shirtless, with his tanned, concave chest exposed to the elements He tinkers about with ramrod straight posture industriously, sometimes climbing a precarious looking steel ladder with a diminutive paint roller in his wizened hand, sometimes he is crouched over at a corner of a dishevelled looking garden random clay pots like tawdry motels temporarily housing a motley mess of plants lives in disarray. He toils away at a thin, gravelly looking layer of soil. Dry, parched the asphalt driveway looks so dry that you wonder doesn’t he feel thirsty, labouring away under the hot midday sun? In between his tasks he sits in repose on the pavement outside facing the rundown palace but he never looks idle fixated with a look of dilligent contemplation, as he surveys the greying mould-marbled facade of his conscientious work worn, shabby, and wearily silent in demeanour Around 5pm everyday, as the reassuring evening breeze dulls the sheen of sweat coating his skin the wan man leaves his supposed palace its structure still fraying like his threadbare khaki shorts Half an hour later, a non-threatening looking middle-aged lady walks up to the porch of the house arm in arm with an equally gormless looking man. She unlocks the gates and enters the living room of the house introducing elements like green-tinged fluorescent lighting and the chatter of a television to the droll space not that it makes much of a difference to the sullen house dulled with a feeble sadness. The neighbourhood aunties say that the wan shirtless man who comes and goes like a stubborn, skinny entity was once married to the lady She wrested the haggard old house from his grip after their divorce not quite She may have moved on but her quietly determined ex-husband returns doggedly everyday like a dutiful handyman who has no qualms fixing (or deconstructing) the debilitated cliche of a building, incapable of improvement structural or aesthetic Everyday, he resolutely waves his imaginary wand over his faded fortress but it looks as waxen as his face Some say he’s tireless, long-suffering. The neighbourhood aunties say he’s tiresome, insufferable deluded and foolish even, “He looks like a shoddy labourer” another opines staking his invisible claim on a home that he no longer sleeps in Perhaps he’s trying to salvage some semblance of domesticity once his and hers. Or perhaps he’s a sweaty, hopeless romantic clammy with sadness translating his unrequited love to an unresponsive but non-judgemental structure. Now and then he pauses from his strict regimen relenting, he gives the neighbourhood children a sanguine smile. Recently, he’s been looking more wan than usual. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 164 [topic] => 43 [informant] => CARAAAAA [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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