I leave the flat early to beat the heat, taking the long route through Kampong Glam because straight lines bore me before breakfast. The Sultan Mosque is still quiet, its dome catching a pink wash from a sun not quite over the shophouses yet. Vendors are rolling shutters halfway — the metallic rattle is the neighbourhood's alarm clock.

The lane I love bends left without warning, as if the city changed its mind mid-street. Someone has painted the lower wall yellow — not polite pastel yellow, but the bold kind that argues with grey pavement. Against it, a mural of a bird mid-hop looks ready to leave the bricks. I stand there longer than a sensible person would, admiring how paint can make a Tuesday feel like a festival invitation.

Colourful Kampong Glam lane with painted walls
The bend where yellow paint meets morning shade

Further down, a textile shop owner arranges bolts of fabric with the focus of a librarian shelving rare books. He nods hello without stopping his hands. The patterns are loud — peacocks, geometry, flowers big enough to wear as hats. I don't need fabric, but I need this proof that people still care how things look up close.

Colour is a handshake from someone you haven't met yet.

On Arab Street a café hasn't opened, but through the half-raised shutter I see a woman testing chairs — sit, stand, adjust, repeat. Quality control for comfort. I appreciate that. A cat watches from a parked scooter, tail curled like a question mark. We agree silently that the morning belongs to observers.

Street mural of a bird on a painted wall in Kampong Glam
The bird that almost left the wall

When I finally duck into the bookshop with the poetry section squeezed between travel guides and cookbooks, my shirt sticks lightly to my shoulders. I buy a slim volume I may finish in a month or a year — timelines are flexible when you read for pleasure, not assignment. The bookseller stamps the date inside the cover. A small ceremony.

Kampong Glam rewards slow feet. If you walk fast, you see shops. If you walk slowly, you see people preparing the shops — sweeping, humming, watering plants that lean toward the street like nosy neighbours. I head home with yellow paint still behind my eyes and the satisfied tiredness of someone who took the scenic route on purpose.

At home I rinse my shoes and leave them by the door. The yellow stays in my head through lunch — not a souvenir, more like evidence that the city still paints itself without asking permission. I'll walk the same lanes again; they never repeat exactly.