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I sat with Uncle Jake in front of the windows, surveying the street not batting much of an eyelid at the occasional funeral possession that passed below. Sago Lane, in 1969, after all had its unique local fame as the street of death where locals patronised the row of funeral parlours and casket makers. With few alternate facilities to mourn their loved ones who had left this mundane world for the after world of the Chinese race, Sago Lane had never been busier with those locals who could not afford the more lavish expenses of a proper Chinese funeral send off.
With cheap local beer flowing from our glasses, we were soon the best of friends talking without the generation gap that existed between him and me. Uncle Jake was very much unlike my own parents who were ever so strict about the need for propriety. He was so down to earth. Alcohol was out for me at home until I could make my own dole to pay for it. But in his simple life making a living selling fried noodles, Hung’s father found beer to be the drink it was designed for, a drink for pleasure and for relaxation. I was introduced to this yellow liquid during one of my regular visits to his home at the tender age of fourteen when Hung was my neighbour. Time had passed so fast and she was able to sustain my interest in her with her simple honesty and faithfulness that our respective families had accepts us as two young teen pussy underage sweethearts. |
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