The Sandpit Young Indian dad at Diggersite corner pink UNREAL tee on his phone while his child played in the pale sand. Opposite, a Chinese husband and wife in front of their own children, quietly sitting, patiently. Our chap casting a furtive look at his counterpart on the other side as if at a worrisome reflection. In the passage by the escalators at Level 3 another dad mounted on a bent blue polar bear, or maybe it was an elephant? He was behind, little girl in front and a happy, happy tune playing on their ride. Between the ears of this beast flashing red and green a console, steering wheel somehow hidden. In the narrow space the pair could not be rounded and needed to be followed slowly in procession. Unaccompanied older kids given the entire back half of the third floor for their circuit in the yellow trucks—out round the elevators, up and down the passage either side, and swing back behind. No stage event on Ground today, no concert or talent quest. Occasionally closely supervised rock climbing walls were erected there; once or twice monthly smooth and costumed US or UK Emcees compering special events. Even in the condos the heat posed the problem: what to do with the kids? The safest urban environment on the planet availed not a jot at 96% humidity. The common resort from another time and place—Go play outside—impossible here. If you told Singaporeans that ecologically speaking their city-state was never meant to be; that it had been madness to sink all the concrete, steel and glass slap bang on the equator; that all the technology, automation, robotics and innovation would not alter hard truths that had been well and truly beyond the ken of the celebrated local helmsman who back in the day had thought aircon the pinnacle of human invention—if you
Pavle Radonic
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