A taxi stopped next to me while on my way to the café. The door opened and a Chinese woman got off it. She did not close the door behind her, but quickly walked away. I helped the driver leaning over the gear stick shut the door by pushing it gently. Further down the street someone honked at the woman. Men drivers here hardly ever tease or harrass women pedestrians: they either belong to someone, husband or father, or are (the wrong kind of) foreign.
I was therefore perplexed. Was she a trotteuse? And how can passing drivers tell while I cannot? There was nothing at all exceptional about her appearance (you know: quirky clothes, excessive makeup and the like). I will possibly never find out as my attention was immediately afterwards caught by a roofless building crumbling apart, complete with a stair leading nowhere:
For houses, a fate even worse than war is to end up unloved. Most Outposters don’t love the old quarter of the Capital. Some of them once told me it’s full of criminals and foreigners, others that it looks like a foreign country. Who knows who it is exactly who lives in a foreign country.
Next to the ruin, three Subcontinentals were discussing about ‘jumaa’, with a long wavy ‘a’. Two more, a couple, walked past me, the man in suit and flip-flops. Further down the street a busy call centre, which until recently was a shop. An Eastern European and a Subcontinental were speaking on the phone in cubicles whose external wall was the shop window.
Almost there, I glanced at some underwear at Wolford‘s. I found a pair of stockings (with a handwriting pattern at the back of each leg) particularly sexy. Old age tastes, from someone who used to find Ann Summers stuff both pedestrian and tame. Let’s say I got classier with time.