Blowing in the wind

File photo. Now, a spanking new bridge stands here

Seletar, 48 km. Waiting for the blues to go away doesn't happen. Eager to try something different - note I didn't use the word "new" - I cycle to Seletar, one of my old haunts years ago.

Others too have poignant memories of this place. They used to live here, grew up here, made their lives here. But they were forced to move. What used to count here, now counts for naught. It's time to go. The bulldozers have come and gone, the landscape obliterated. Bits of the past remain, but it's not the same anymore.

Sand blows into my eyes, the closest I come to tears. I see two cyclists on the windswept road. And two Apaches, throbbing olive-green platforms of death (or life, depending on which side of the weapons you are on). And a Chinook too.