Xing

It’s quite shocking how endless streams of drunken fellas (mainly British, for some reason) come our way in the afternoon. An early over-indulgence at lunchtime, and they gab away, such nonsense. The one who just left did a little stumble as he went out.

And then there’re all these ancient-old-fish types with Van Winkle beards who try to open the purification tank, burble wild-eyed about the obscene smell, and regale us with their travels in Singapore from thirty years back. Where they stayed, what they saw, what we would have seen if we’d been alive.

All we need is a little push-button and a trapdoor in front of the table. Woosh-Bang!