Morning shoe

Needless to say it was surely not about CAmoich, DAmoich or anyone like that, who are just prematurely bald middle-aged men, wearing grey trousers with disappearing pleats, tucked-out fading chequered half-sleeved shirts with a couple of buttons open at the top revealing a few odd curly chest-hair which have no clue what they are doing there, a yellowing vest, and barely concealing a big round belly; who sweat profusely all year round under the tropical sun, wear expressions that are tired and loathsome, with squinty eyes as if the noon sun shines upon them even in the darkest corners they inhabit where rusty fans make sharp screeching noises; who lure the uninitialized with fake toothy grins only to make false promises and not deliver. They smell of hair oil, whose pungent fumes have the potential to choke the innocent miles away.

It was not about them!

Instead, it is about marmalade and butter on a sunny winter morning. Tastes that are not real.



P.S. Had anticipated a balanced day at work, which after an unexpected twist, turned on its head! No time for anything this evening.