Ren and I were at a party feeling old among a bunch of mid-twenties while diluted gin-and-tonics sweated on the table in front of us, when in the middle of a sentence about something or other, she stopped short and said, “I think we need to go to Newton.” So we made our exit, and, man, sometimes there is nothing better than rockin it hawker-centre style—cold watermelon juice and fried carrot cake, the black kind—at half past one in the morning. We also almost got ice cream sandwiches but ice cream uncle didn’t have the special rainbow bread on hand.

Quietly home, put on Saloon and sleep with the windows open, the orangeyellow streetlight floating in on the cool air.