Taba and Tomos, who were allies and bitter enemies, were working together by themselves on a plot at Marioka’s house in Catford, South London. They could never meet up for a humane activity. Abetting, not cooperation, brought them together. Marioka had a sudden emergency to attend in Southgate, North London. It was an imposing, well-decorated three-bedroom house with a grey brick facade overlooking the leafy Mountsfield Park. They were in the computer room upstairs working on their gentleman’s club server. Tomos was gradual in his disdain towards anyone he considered beneath him, yet again. Wearing a smart suit as ever, Tomos was smug in taking ever bold verbal jabs at Taba. He bragged about his father’s exploits as a notable architect and his birth in the UK. His dismissal of Taba as a person descended from peasants and obsessed with social-climbing was harsh and unnecessary. Tomos went further to inform Taba, one is well-born or not. Self-made men without pedigree are usually “one generation wonders.” The limit came when Taba was told living in England could never elevate his type. Read More “The Near Death Experience of a Petite Man: Part 2”
Whenever Fifties and Rong met up, it always turned out to be a promising event for ethanol use. Bottles of whiskey evaporated without a trace, but the water contents of bottles of beer were traceable to the sewers found in any town they met up, courtesy of their tipples. However, both guys were in denial of the edification they got drinking together. They never met up for trivial or leisure purposes, but ended up using alcohol creatively under the precept of the ‘rule of one’ in both rational and self-deceiving ways.
The ‘rule of one’ had started at their very first drinking meeting five years ago in a bar in St Albans. Rong had suggested they have ‘one’ drink each, one-one. It was one can of Heineken export (0.5 litres) each, a lovely drink that evening. As the time rolled on, both men sought ways to defy the rule of one, one-one. The attempt to use the maths square and cube of one failed; the result was one. Read More “The Logic of One”
Victoria Station has always been an underrated masterpiece of London. Imagine London without it; I won’t. The sun was glaring outside the station that morning, but not giving London any sensible warmth. The warmth was to come later, possibly with love. Albanny Korrow, like most other males on the train platform, was wearing bi-thermal attire, which could be practical in both mild summer and mild winter weather. Albanny Korrow, a dark-skinned man, was wearing his most predictable outfit; suede wallabies; brown corduroy trousers, shirt, and jacket, but of different shades of each other. Even his satchel-bag and suitcase were brown. As he was about to embark on the train at Victoria station, one of the many ladies around had in an instant bewitched him without his seeing her face. Read More “One-Time Train Encounter”