Weekend mornings, just when the sun, out of habit, looks at the grey behind the blanket of buildings, are special in Singapore. The manicured lawns become a golden green while the heat is yet to wake up. Much of the city forgets its usual crazy rush to get out of the vast and lonely openness of their small homes to find a place inside the cosy wombs of buses, trains and cars. People shed those business attires designed by designers who failed their geography classes and assumed that the tropics were a part of Europe. There is a gentle breeze of informality in the air, as if suffocated souls have been able to peek from buttoned collars and are enjoying this temporary respite in a dignified manner. As the sound of high heels take rest, people walk gently to the nearest food courts for a leisurely breakfast, giving way to a few perambulators, loaded with babies and grocery bags. Maids are already talking loud and fast on the phone to make most of their precious free moments away from their employer’s homes. They have the most to share about their lives. Only the newspaper stalls, run by old ladies, are busier than usual, for it’s hard to resist the thickness of the weekend newspaper. The cats have already lined up along the walkways at their usual places, waiting for those who come to feed them out of charity. The pet dogs are also out in large numbers, looking for someone from the opposite sex of the same breed, in the hope of firing their imaginations later at night in their pampered yet solitary homes. The wilderness of the city, the pigeons and crows, roam around in pride, as if human civilization was their plan.