1st of June. Adam Road hawker centre rewelcomes eager habitués after lengthy renovation. Doughnut-shaped seating area thronging with convocations of senior citizens (one leg vertically-akimbo, like a chicken wing precisely poised, on the citrus-coloured furniture; past repast before them, landfills of disembodied cockle- and clam-shells), au fait expatriates, bewildered tourists, healthy nuclear-family foursomes. In the centre, gazebo-dining, stupidly sheltered by large umbrellas from the skylight which is there to beautify!

Half the tenants sell the same things: I was not aware that this was an Islamic-gastronomic ghetto. Embittered fruit-juice factions, situated next to each other, jostle and clamour for patronage. If you do not buy from the one on the right, a horrible weaselly old man shoots looks of extreme rancour in your direction every five minutes. On this occasion Mrs. Weasel joined the heckling campaign by "accidentally" spilling green apple froth-and-juice down my back. Forgotten stingray order inflamed already fraying nerves. The rojak stall is a fraudulent establishment; there was no mango in the mango rojak. Hokkien mee was guilty of three misdemeanours. In descending order of uncountenanceability:

1. Wrong type of chilli
2. Use of chu1 mi3 fen3
3. Discoloured crab-sticks