消失中的乡根.docVIP

消失中的乡根 　　As a child， I skinned my knees countless times in sandy playgrounds and on concrete sidewalks， as I ran around chasing my brother within the 1）void decks of our Ghim Moh estate. I remember， as a 6-year old， pleading and whining for 20 cents to buy the chicken-flavoured Kaka snacks from the 2）mamak stall downstairs， just so I could get that little surprise toy hidden within. 　　I have fond memories of following my mother to the 3）wet market in Ghim Moh estate， walking around the maze of stalls， trying not to slip and fall in my slippers and inadvertently getting my toes wet from the water that drained off from the fish counters and vegetable stalls to the mosaic floor， listening to her bargain in 4）Teochew to the vegetable seller who in the next minute would start talking to another customer in Malay. 　　I remember too， a long-gone time， when 5）hawkers at the wet market used to sell live chickens， kept in metal cages， and how as a child， I often wondered if they were cooking those same chickens in the huge， metal vats that stood next to the chicken cages. 　　So when I heard the news that the Ghim Moh hawker centre and market is going to undergo some major renovations in the later part of 2014 and most possibly lose the facade that it had for the past 30 years， my heart starts to mourn the approaching loss of one of the last stomping grounds of my childhood. 　　For many Singaporeans living in fastchanging Singapore， many of the places we knew and loved as children or young adults have all but disappeared. I suppose that is the price we have to pay for living in a land-scarce country where constant urban redevelopment is the norm. 　　The book and stationery store in Ghim Moh that my brother James and I used to frequent as kids， closed 4 years ago after over 30 years in business. I used to relish the fact that it had changed little over the course of three decades， the shelves still stocking the same types of notebooks and 6）jotter books that I had bought