Rochor Centre at night, with darkness veiling the bright colours, brings out another mistress – one pensive yet still robust.

The quiet voice of rebellion exists, as activities in her compound past its official clearance deadline, is flickering but still seen, from the occasional odd window with clothes left out to dry. There’s also a bunch of Malay girls seated at the void deck, an Indian lad spooking passers-bys like me by crouching at a stranded sofa looking at his mobile, and even Spiderman makes an appearance with his accompanying photographer – probably doing some concept shots. But probably none more so, than the homeless guy seated at the open air space in the middle, wondering where else would accept his decrepit self as “okay”.

The time is coming for these blocks to be gone forever. The value is not seen by our agencies, but clearly felt by the folks who grew up and interacted here. Who turned house to home. Now scattered around the island, the true colours of Rochor Centre have finally dimmed, by scholars who saw the need for a highway through this section.

Good night Rochor Centre.