Singapore Sling Shot Read Online Free PDF

she was wearing long shorts. Hers did not look at all stupid on her. I wasn’t sure if my shorts looked as stupid as I felt they did. I was, however, thankful that my months of indolence back in Hong Kong had included sitting or lying, albeit generally in a semi-comatose state, on my terrace or by the condo’s pool. Therefore I had managed to maintain a decent tan that at least made my damn shorts bearable. There is nothing worse in my book than seeing lily-white, hairy sticks of spaghetti poking out of a pair of voluminous shorts. It’s especially pathetic when the hairy spaghetti sticks end in what appear to be enormous oversized sneakers or boots. All an illusion, of course, because of the spaghetti legs combined with normal-sized feet. That always reminds me of Minnie Mouse cartoons or of Spike Milligan’s drawings.
    Simone’s tan was the golden tan of the fair skinned, the colour of honey, while her hair was straw gold. There had to be some Scandinavian in her genetic mix. She was tall and looked very athletic. Her eyes, which tracked me as I came towards her, were clear and blue and very much alive. Sami had obviously described me, but the shorts were probably the giveaway.
    In addition to the stupid shorts, both of us had on polo shirts; hers was lime green, mine was light blue. We were the damned Bobbsey Twins!
    My outfit was completed by a wide-billed baseball cap bearing a BMW logo. It had been the least offensive of those I had been looking at. My striking companion didn’t have a hat on. With her mass of blonde curls tied back by a green ribbon that wasn’t an accidental match to her shirt, she didn’t need any sun protection. We were both wearing dark glasses. Mine were on my hat, hers pushed into her hair.
    I noticed that Simone’s Nike trainers were not brand new. They’d seen some use. Judging by how trim her long body looked, she was into the gym or was a runner which, of course, probably accounted for the shoes. My own swooshes were straight out of the box. My usual footwear, my faithful boots, were in my wardrobe. Cowboy boots and shorts do not a match make. Not even for a hokum Aussie tourist.
    Simone carried a camera slung over one shoulder and a leather bag over the other. I had the Sony in its case clipped to my belt. I’d added a sleeveless khaki vest over my shirt. My wallet, cigarettes and sundry other bits and pieces were all stowed in its many pockets. The vest was practical and, of course, it is just the sort of thing tourists like me seem to wear, especially in the tropics.
    We made a show of greeting, and to a casual observer we were old friends or separated spouses meeting up. There were kisses and hugs. I must admit that I found it all most pleasant. Arm in arm we headed out front to snare a taxi.
    Safely ensconced in the back of a blue Comfort cab en route to VivoCity and the Sentosa train, we dropped the charade momentarily.
    â€œI feel like a right idiot,” I said.
    â€œYou look like a typical tourist,” came the reply. Simone’s English was perfect with just the bare trace of an accent. Dutch or South African, I couldn’t quite be sure. “Mr Somsak said you’d hate this bit.” She was smiling. It was a nice smile.
    â€œYeah,” I muttered. “He knows me too well. So, what’s on the agenda?”
    â€œWe’ll have breakfast at Vivo and get the monorail across to the island. No point in us going over there too early. Things don’t open until ten or so.”
    â€œYou’ve been there a lot?”
    â€œTwo kids. It’s Singapore’s playground,” she replied. The faint, flat touch of bitterness in her voice belied her smile. “When it’s the weekend or school holidays and the kids are restless and you’re trapped in an apartment block and you’re not filthy rich, you soon learn to love and hate the place.”
    The obvious questions reared their heads. Was she