So, it’s farewell to Singapore (above, below). 24 hours in the country/city/island, courtesy of D’s uber-generous hospitality - thank you again, sir - and the verdict?

Well, as we were driving down the main shopping boulevard (and it was definitely a boulevard, not a street) last night, I suddenly put my finger on how to describe the place.

Singapore feels like The Truman Show.

I was looking through the car window at the shops, the trees, the people, the traffic moving down the streets, the Gap and HMV and Gucci signage and… well, it all looked normal. But then it hit me. Singapore feels more like the appearance of normality than normality itself.

Now, this could be down to the place being famously clean, and modern, and safe, and well-functioning. Because in fact, Singapore is more than just ‘normal’ - it’s too normal. It’s perfect (in a capitalist, developed way). Which would lead some to say that it ‘lacks soul’. But… no, it’s even more indefinable than that.

Singapore just doesn’t feel real.

It feels like a film set. No, scrub that. New York feels like a film set, and yet it’s also very real. No, Singapore doesn’t look and feel like a film or TV set. Singapore looks and feels like those little 3D models which architects/town-planners make of new shopping centres/airports/public spaces. Complete with little model cars and trees and people. Yes, that’s Singapore. Only slightly larger, of course.

(Btw, I’m writing this on the flight, and the cabin crew have just announced that drug-trafficking can result in capital punishment in Malaysia and can we return to our seats now, please.)

One final thought: Singapore is also a curious mixture of the liberal and illiberal.

The Singaporean government - which, like the Malaysian one, has been in power for decades, ever since independence - is socialist. And in many ways, Singapore is a fantastic example of a modern, socialist society in which everybody is housed (in fact, Singapore has the highest percentage of home-owners in the world), people are generally well-off, the public transport system is second-to-none and unemployment is very low. And yet I defy you to walk around a city that feels more capitalist - with the exception of Times Square in New York, perhaps - being, filled, as it is, with high-rise corporate headquarters, banks and shopping boulevards (there they are again).

And in terms of its values, Singapore’s liberal, socialist stance on certain things - prostitution is legal, housing is a right - contrasts jarringly with the country’s at best conservative, at worst, massively illiberal, side: state-owned media, regulated internet, the death penalty, and the criminalisation of homosexuality.

Mind you, even chewing gum is illegal in Singapore. See what I mean about place not really being normal?

(Well, it had to be done, didn’t it?)

So, I’m in Singapore. Which is, fact fans: an island, a country and a city. And very rainy. And very hot. The reason I’m here, in case you missed it, is that D, the hotel owner, had told me that I must come and visit him while I was in Asia. And, well, who am I to refuse the generous offer of a millionaire building magnate? Nobody, that’s who.

That said, for a nobody, I’m doing pretty well. I was met at the airport by somebody holding a card with my name on it (a first), and driven to my abode for the night in a Rolls-Royce (not surprisingly, another first).

What strangely didn’t feel like a first, though, was seeing the Singapore city skyline, which is spookily reminiscent of downtown Manhattan:

Though obviously not as big. And with a few more Chinese signs around.

D is very kindly putting me up in his family home, where he lives with his three children, M (18), L (15) and M2 (10). I’m staying in his other daughter’s room - she’s currently a boarder at Rodean - and I feel like I’m in the kind of house kids lived in on Beverly Hills 90210.

(That said, the children are cool. Especially M2, who likes to answer my questions about the country/city like an informed tour guide, chipping in before his father and normally beginning each answer with an affirmative: “Pretty much.”)

But back to this house.

To put it in perspective: when I was first laid up with my cold this week, I didn’t leave my hotel room for 24 hours. And I realised why I was able to do that, and why it didn’t feel odd.

It was because my hotel room is approximately the same size as my entire flat back home.

But, well… something tells me we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

This house is ridiculous. In a good way. It’s a modern, open-plan-yet-rabbit-warren-type of place, all horizontal lines, pale wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. In short, it’s exactly the sort of architect-designed home you’d see on a programme like Grand Designs. Complete with a kitchen the size of one you’d find in a fancy restaurant (I counted three sinks); a pool which I think is ornamental as opposed to made for swimming; a Yamaha drum kit; a Steinway piano; and multiple dining areas - one of which houses a huge round, glass table with the largest Lazy Susan in existence. Probably.

Oh, and an adorable Golden Retriever called Snowy.

We all went out for lunch together, at the Singapore National Museum - which is quite possibly one of the most striking and well-done museum spaces I’ve ever been to (an old colonial building with a modern annex) and even has happy hours in its cool little bar. That’s my kind of learning establishment!

The museum also houses a fascinating, labyrinthine exhibition about the history of Singapore; and these very cool swinging chandeliers, which I think have given me my favourite photo of the trip so far:

After which we went on a tour of Singapore city by car (see the pictures here).

But right now, we’re back at the house. And after dinner with the kids, D and I are going to go down to the quayside and to Raffles Hotel for - you guessed it! - a Singapore Sling.

Well, it has to be done, doesn’t it?

No, not the camera. Or the bathroom. Or me. The bathrobe.

Just to prove it is me, though (and can you tell I’ve been cutting my own fringe?):

Right, I’m off to bed now. I’ve got an early start - a morning flight to Singapore! So watch this space for a post headline which will undoubtedly involve some pun on ‘Singapore Sling’. Unless I break my arm. In which case it won’t so much be a ‘pun’, as ‘literal’. But here’s hoping that won’t happen. Night lah!

(Unless something back home has changed.)

I forgot to write about something which happened earlier this week.

The band and I were doing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. And there’s a moment in the final section where we all stop - for pretty much as long as I feel like it - the last time we do this phrase:

“But each time I do

Just the thought of you

Makes me stop…”

<Pause>

“Before I begin…”

- It’s a bit of a cliche on this song, but fun to do occasionally.

So, anyway, there we were on a fairly busy night, but with an attentive audience, so all was quiet in the bar; and this is what happens:

“But each time I do

Just the thought of you

Makes me stop…”

<Pause>

<Phone in the bar rings, right next to the stage>

As they’d say in South Park: Sweet.

CC dropped by the bar last night, and brought with him the negatives and digital versions of the photos I took with the SLR the other day.

The results weren’t too bad - beautifully sharp, if a little over-exposed (it was a very sunny day). But hey, nothing a little iPhoto-ing can’t fix. Almost:

What I noticed most of all when looking at shots like the one above and the one below, here -

- is that, apart from both being of windows, they’re really not so different from the results I can get with my little digital camera. So easily the most satisfying photos I took with the SLR are ones which really use that SLR , if you see what I mean. Like these:

Though the centre of focus is clearly slightly skew-whiff* on that second one.

Anyway, SLR Lesson Number One learned ;-).

More pictures from that afternoon in Georgetown are here.

*Definitely the first time I’ve ever written that word.

Back, I tell you!

Well, my public needed me - what can I say?

I got an email from a friend today saying “sorry to hear about your cold” - and I replied (after first thanking her for her sympathy) that it’s strange what blogs do to you. Ordinarily, a cold is nothing out of the ordinary, and I feel pathetic for even writing about it, let alone eliciting any sympathy for it. Especially when my poor sister-in-law is laid up after major back surgery (here’s a shout out to you, K!).

In the realm of daily blogging, however, a slight sniffle suddenly assumes the mantle of Headline Of The Week (or even: Weak), and people here are asking me if I’m really OK, and if I’m going to see a doctor, and how I should really see a doctor, what with Malaysian viruses being particularly strong.

But: it’s just a cold.

So I was back on the bandstand tonight - after D’s daughter did a sterling job of standing in for me over the past two nights - and lo, like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, as soon as I started singing, people started to enter the room. No, really. It was quite spooky. Though not as spooky as it would have been if it had been rats.

I felt like I was firing on two cylinders all night; and it’s really quite an interesting exercise, to sing with only 50% of your voice. Mainly because it’s not an even 50% split. It’s not like you lose half of your range; it’s more that the ‘oomph’ isn’t there, and you lose the control you normally have. So when you start a phrase, no matter how short or long, it could suddenly slip at some point. A bit like singing on black ice.

But, hey: at least I was back up there.

Next up: a fascinating report on how I’ve chipped a fingernail!

I heard this song in the supermarket yesterday and I’m thinking that I’d love to do a version of it:

I think B played it to me in his flat the last time I was there; and I remarked that I vaguely knew - and liked - the tune, but had no idea it was by Clapton. Obviously it’s pretty clear on listening that it’s Clapton’s voice… But I guess it’s just one of those songs I’ve heard in the background, on the radio, and never paid any attention to.

‘Change The World’ won the Grammy for Record Of The Year in 1997, and it’s got such a lovely feel to it - not just in its gentle funk, but also in its sometimes bluesy, Paul Simon-esque chords (which, brilliantly, I’ve just found in BIAB format ). The lyrics are pretty sweet, too:

“If I could reach the stars, I’d pull one down for you
Shine it on my heart so you could see the truth
That this love I have inside is everything it seems
But for now I find it’s only in my dreams
That I can change the world…”

In fact, I just Googled “eric clapton change the world lyrics” and clicked on a link to a lyrics site, where the words to the song are in the middle of the screen, and Google ads run down the right-hand side. One of the ads reads:

Want to change the world?

Your career in Jewish communal service begins at HUC-JIR

Do you suppose people really Google “change the world” because they want to actually change the world? Perhaps they do. Perhaps Googling “change the world” is up there with Googling any of the following:

“meaning of life”

“does god exist?”

“commiting murder”

- and other such small matters.

All I wanted was the lyrics to a song.

Which leads me to think that there must be all kinds of sites you could be misdirected to on Googling a song title. For example:

‘Take The A Train’ - Looking for New York subway timetables?

‘Fever’ - Get a diagnosis from a real doctor online now!

‘Come Rain Or Come Shine’ - Five-day weather forecasts for your area

- and that’s just touching the surface of the jazz canon. Ooh, this could be fun… More suggestions, please!

The sky and sea just now (no colour exaggeration):

Just before it turned to this:

And then darkness.

Hopefully.

Thank you everyone for your advice - as you can see, I’ve taken it all on board. Apart from the whisky and cloves bit (Rachel).

I left my room after 24 hours house arrest to go and buy all of the above; and to have lunch downstairs (baked salmon with salad, followed by fruit, since you ask). As I told someone the other day, I never, but never, lose my appetite. No matter what’s happened to me - I could have fallen sick/had my heart broken/survived a nuclear holocaust - there’s one thing that’s guaranteed. Through it all, I’ll be able to eat like a horse*.

M, the hotel manager, called me yesterday to ask how I was and to see if there was anything he could do. Bless him. I really am so lucky to work for a place which treats me so well.

M also told me that when he used to work at the Savoy, Pavarotti would sometimes come to stay (the Savoy being his London hotel of choice). Apparently, Pavarotti requested on room service five - count ‘em! - litres of freshly squeezed orange juice every day. Five litres a day! No wonder he got fat - all that fructose! M used to squeeze his oranges, too (missus) - he said they were even imported from Sicily. Fancy.

And speaking of health food - I read this story in the paper over lunch:

The young lad above just scored the highest number of top grades in his SPM exams (Malaysian ‘A’ levels). He got 1As in 21 subjects (including Higher Arabic Language and Accountancy) and told the paper that he only studied when he felt like it. Adding: “Of course, you have to consistently ‘feel like it’. I studied every day.”

And the other secret of his success (apart from an unfeasibly large brain)? “I also did a lot of hajat prayers**, watched my diet and took the advice of my headmaster to consume a lot of dates, honey and milk.”

So there you go: this post has not only brought you the cure for the common cold, but also the secrets of a diet guaranteed to win you a place on University Challenge. Hurrah for me!

Now, back to looking pitifully out of the window at the sunshine…

*ie. with a big nose bag around my face.

**Explanation of a hajat prayer - albeit in a slightly Hitchhikers’ Guide to The Galaxy form - is here.