Let me set the scene. Marina Bay was glowing like it had its own lighting department, tourists were elbowing for the perfect angle, and Singapore’s hardest-working employee was still on duty: half lion, half fish, fully committed to spitting water without so much as a tea break.
One visitor opened her mouth beneath the stream. Another tried to catch it in his hands. A third leaned so far backwards for the photo that gravity nearly collected him.
“I have seen things,” the Merlion muttered.
“More dramatic than that man losing his balance?”
“Selfie sticks. Matching family shirts. Forty-seven people pretending to drink my water before lunch.”
I looked up at his stone face. “You secretly enjoy this.”
“I am a national icon,” he replied, turning his best side toward Marina Bay. “Enjoyment has nothing to do with it. Now move two steps left—you’re blocking my skyline.”
No Lunch Breaks, Just Snow Globes
By midday, the stone beneath him was hot enough to fry an egg, the queue of cameras had doubled, and somebody had placed a souvenir Merlion beside the real one for comparison.
“Is that supposed to be you?” I asked.
He stared at the tiny snow globe version of himself. “Apparently, I’m available in six colours and glow-in-the-dark.”
“At least you’re successful.”
“I haven’t had a lunch break since 197 melt-and-something. I work in full sun, surrounded by people shouting ‘one more photo,’ while producing several thousand litres of free entertainment.”
A child waved at him. The Merlion’s expression softened for half a second.
I noticed.
“That was almost sweet.”
“It was heat exhaustion,” he said. “And if anyone asks, I require shade, paid leave and considerably better merchandise.”
He Does Not Seek Attention—Allegedly
“You complain a lot for someone positioned in the middle of every photograph.”
“I do not seek attention.”
Behind us, Marina Bay Sands began to glow against the evening sky. The Merlion lifted his chin—or perhaps the light simply caught him at precisely the right moment.
“Of course not,” I said. “You just happen to spit dramatically in front of Singapore’s most expensive backdrop.”
“Coincidence.”
“And you’ve never once wished those tourists would point their cameras elsewhere?”
Silence.
A group moved towards the waterfront without taking a photo. The Merlion watched them go with deep suspicion.
“They probably didn’t see me.”
“There it is.”
“I merely respect proper sightseeing standards,” he replied. “Now step aside. The blue hour is excellent for my complexion.”
Eventually, the tour groups wandered towards dinner, the selfie sticks folded away, and Merlion Park exhaled.
Without the crowd, the bay felt different. Quieter. The towers shimmered across the water, boats slipped beneath the lights, and warm air carried the last scraps of conversation along the promenade.
The Merlion stopped complaining.
“You have a ridiculous view,” I said.
“It is acceptable.”
“Just acceptable?”
“I’ve had the same seat for years. One develops standards.”
Yet he kept staring across the bay, looking almost peaceful now that nobody was trying to swallow his water for Instagram.
For all his grumbling, he had the best night shift in Singapore—and the smug stone face of someone who knew it.
The City Changes. The Poses Do Not.
“Don’t you ever get tired of watching the same city?” I asked.
The Merlion looked towards the skyline, where another light had switched on and another boat was cutting a silver line across the bay.
“It is never the same city.”
Behind us, a latecomer rushed into position, opened his mouth and stretched both arms towards the water.
The Merlion sighed.
“The city changes,” he said. “The poses do not.”
I left him to his night shift: watching Singapore reinvent itself while humanity continued pretending to drink from a stone fish-lion.
Some traditions, apparently, are stronger than progress.
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