a scout, tail bushy and eyes bright, comes to the door and my father asks him to clean his bicycle (job week.) afterwards, receiving his bob (or ten singapore dollars as the going rate apparently now is), says, thank you, and thank you for two years ago. two years ago? father asks, mystified. it seems two years ago same scout had been playing in naung park and fell. whereupon he came to our door and my mother cleaned up his knee and daubed chinese ointment on it and gave him a hot drink.

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i feel there ought to be a moral of some sort to the tale, only i can't think of one.

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also a nagging sense of narrative unsatisfactoriness, as my father doesn't have anything to do with the two-years-ago part of the story.

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me to father: was your bicycle very clean?
father: tolerably.
me: pa, this story gets less and less elegant.