Sturm und Drang in the the night as Fanapi gave it a final fling.
Maybe 20 feet across the alley from the bedroom window is the ten-storey wall of green-white striped fibre-sheeting, battened in panels to the scaffolding of an under-construction apartment block. It shields street level from chips and chunks of concrete that ricochet down as workmen bash around at the upper levels.
The winds ripped most of the sheeting to shreds in the night. The noise was tremendous. Ten storeys of loosened heavy-duty tarpaulin smacking about in the storm. An eerie silence around dawn. You drew open the living room curtains and saw the tarps torn to strips, the guts of the construction work open to the world.
Lack of sleep or a typhoon hangover, you shuffled through the day on autopilot. Low work rate at the library in the morning, an afternoon lost to more visa application prep.
Learned from N on the way to playschool that S’s hair smells of lemon and yours of strawberry (?). N’s own hair smells of coffee, she says, and didi’s of mashed potato.
The morning after:
Torn twigs and wet green leaves