Short notes written with the window open.
I live on Marine Crescent and write small pieces about the coast road, the kopitiam at the foot of the block, and the evenings when the fan clicks onto setting two. Nothing here is sponsored, nothing is for sale, and nothing arrives on a schedule fancier than “when the paragraph is ready.”
If you are new, start anywhere — or walk the full → read the clothesline when you want every note in one place.
Who writes here
I am Aishah — one person, one flat on the eighth storey, one notebook that fills slowly.
I take the bus along the coast road, walk the park connector out to the sea wall, and drink kopi downstairs when the uncle is on morning shift.
These pages are personal reflections, not advice of any kind.
Recent notes
Seven pieces, newest first — each one a single evening or morning I did not want to lose. The photographs are from the same walks and rooms the words describe; the dates are honest, and every link opens a full page.
The Uncle Who Knows the Order
At the coffee shop below my block, the uncle finishes my kopi order before I reach the counter. I write about habit, the plastic chairs dragged into shade, and the small mercy of being recognised in a city that often forgets your name.
Salt on the Railing
A park-connector walk to the sea wall — joggers passing, tankers far out, wind that tastes of salt and exhaust in equal measure. The note is about distance measured in footsteps rather than kilometres.
Eleven Stops Along the Coast
From a bus window I watch the coast road unspool — eleven stops, changing light, the sea appearing and disappearing behind blocks. A paragraph about public transport as a slow camera.
Tiles That Stay Cool at Noon
Old shophouse tiles in a five-foot way — shade, a cat that owns the step, a door someone repainted without updating the rest of the row. The kind of afternoon that belongs to nobody and everybody.
The Lamp Takes a Moment
Evening at the kitchen table — the lamp buzzing once before it warms up, the fan on setting two, rice in a covered pot. A habit note about how rooms teach you their timings if you stay long enough.
Ice Before the Stalls Open
Down the wet-market staircase in early morning — the smell of ice, vendors setting up, the polite choreography of trolleys in a narrow lane. A note about hunger and preparation before the city fully wakes.
Fifty-One Chin Swee Road, Late at Night
Near Chin Swee on a wet November evening — sirens, pooled light, and the plain limit of what I saw from my end of the road. I still do not know what happened; I only know what I heard and how I rode home along the coast.