"Stay dry, stay informed, and make the most of monsoon season in Singapore!"
He groaned, but the promise of a pandan waffle from the hawker centre downstairs was enough to lure him off the sofa.
The hawker centre was a steamy, fragrant refuge. The rain drummed a syncopated rhythm on the zinc roof— ping, ping, ping on the metal, thud-thud-thud on the taut canvas awnings. Steam rose from a pot of bak kut teh as Uncle Ah Huat ladled out peppery broth. The air was thick with the sizzle of char kway teow and the clatter of mahjong tiles from the corner table.
This season is generally drier than the Northeast monsoon, though it features its own unique weather patterns:
“Ah Ma, why does it rain so much here?” Wei Jie asked, his mouth full of green waffle.
Lin smiled. “Come. Let’s go for a walk before the real torrent comes.”
“Tomorrow,” she told Wei Jie, “the sun will be fierce. It will be hot and humid. The air will stick to your skin like a second shirt. And everyone will complain.”