(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?

A phrase I just came up with in the bar.

/ˌɪntərˈnæʃənl/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[in-ter-nash-uh-nl /hɑrd/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciationhahrd/taɪm/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation tahym ]

- noun.

The period during which, when you are abroad, people question you jokingly about your personal life.

eg. “Don’t worry, we’re just running on International Hard Time”.

So, after lunching with one of Malaysia’s oldest jazz stars yesterday, I went to singing with two of its youngest phenoms today.

These boys.

I went over to R’s flat again for a play (as we jazzers call it) this afternoon (as we jazzers call the morning); and he brought in his two sons, L, who’s just turned eight, and V, who’s nine, to join us.

We’ll be doing a couple of numbers together at the street market festival at the end of the month (my last day in Penang, in fact), so we sat in R’s little music room and ran through two songs for that - ‘Little Sunflower’ and ‘Route 66′ - with V on piano, R on bass and L on his electronic drum kit.

It was really quite amusing/disconcerting to hear a grown man ask a little boy to “give us a bossa beat” - I felt like I was in a band with simply very small grown-ups - but the boys are really good players, and it was a total joy to sing with them.

Plus I like the idea of the average age of The Andrea Mann Trio being about 12. (Although clearly I’m going to have to be the one getting the drinks in on gigs.)

Our session came to an end when one of R’s many private students, a little girl, arrived. As I sat in his lounge waiting for a taxi (I told you: no one in Penang walks anywhere), I could hear her playing a simple piano tune for him; and it took me right back to the days when I used to go to my piano teacher for my weekly lesson. It made me think how lovely it must be to live in a house where music is taught; where you constantly hear that sound. Although that may have something to do with a comforting thought of childhood as with the idea of the actual reality of it: there may be only so many times you can stand hearing the same scales being played over and over again. And probably badly.

There are a few pics of the guys (and the architecture around where they live) here on Flickr. Plus a photo of a very cool gadget that the Family R have in their car:

Call me a luddite (”Andrea, you’re…”), but I’ve never seen one of those before. It just clips on where the passenger seat’s sun visor would normally be, and you control the volume with the normal in-car stereo controls.

The film the kids were watching on it was Enchanted (nice to know it’s not just for girls), and I earned massive cool points when I told them that I’d seen one of the movie’s scenes - bizarrely, the one which was actually playing as I got into the car - being filmed on the streets of New York last year. R’s wife J was a bit disappointed that I didn’t see Patrick Dempsey, though. But hey - as long as I impressed my new trio, that’s all that matters.

I had a phone call last week from N, the elderly jazz singer - and Penang native - who’s come to the bar a few times.

She asked me how I was and so forth, and then after a pause said:

“Andrea…”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering… Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

Bless! It was like being asked out on a date.

So this lunchtime, she came and picked me up from the hotel, and drove us to a little restaurant for lunch. I’d asked if she’d mind it if we had ‘Western food’ (the generic term used over here for any non-Asian/Indian cuisine) because, after five days, my stomach is still Not Quite Right. I’m blaming this.

The restaurant was like a French cafe - all dark wood and red chequered tablecloths. There were clearly a couple of birthdays going on upstairs, because twice, a pre-recorded version of ‘Happy Birthday’ started playing over the sound system. I told N that “that doesn’t happen in Britain” (a phrase which I’m saying a lot over here, I’m finding).

The restaurant do a set lunch with varying main courses, which meant that for £2.50 each we had soup, fish with almonds and vegetables, a small creme caramel-style dessert made from coconut milk, and coffee. Or in my case, tea. This is almost, but not quite, as good as the vegetarian dinner for two that V and I enjoyed, for £1.50. Between us.

The food was a bit school dinner-ish, but it was fun to see the place and to spend some time with N, who I would guess is in her mid 70s now but still ridiculously glamorous, with her dyed black hair, painted eyebrows and funky glasses. She was wearing a lovely white blouse and linen trousers, accessorised with red shoes and a red bag (and red painted lips). In fact, as we stepped out of the car, I noticed that we were sporting exactly the same colour scheme, only in reverse:

For truly, we are jazz sisters.

I spent this afternoon with CC. Or to be more precise: CC, and a film SLR camera. Or to be even more precise: CC, a film SLR camera and my little Canon Ixus.

CC is not only a bassist and jazz fan, but a keen amateur photographer who works in one of the camera/photographic shops in the mall next door; and a thoroughly nice guy, to boot.

He is also, it transpires, a brilliant tour guide.

As he had the day off today, we decided to go on a little photographic expedition in Georgetown. I took with me the film SLR B has kindly leant me - and when I ran out of all 36 exposures (which took about, erm, an hour), I switched to digital.

First stop was lunch - curry mee soup served in typical Penang style, ie. down a ramshackle alley. And, rather bizarrely, with white toast soldiers with butter and some sort of sweet spread on them.

Second stop: roaming the streets of Georgetown, taking photos; and CC leading me into a massive building not unlike Smithfields Market, which turned out to contain second-hand book stalls that you could get happily lost in. Imagine the final scene of Raiders Of The Lost Ark, and you’ll get some sense of it.

Third stop: more streets and alleyways (and CC all along pointing out interesting places and buildings). By this point, I was using my digital camera:

The last one is an election sticker for the ruling coalition party - ‘Keep Reinventing’ being their slogan. Actually, say what you like about Malaysian politics (and I have) but their elections do at least brighten the place up - there are banners and flags everywhere, festooned across the streets, or waving on flagpoles along the sides of the roads. It’s all very festive, until you realise what they’re actually promoting:

Third stop: one of the Chinese jetties. It turns out that there are a whole series of Chinese jetties near the pier in Penang; Chinese in the sense that they were established long ago by various clans of Chinese immigrants, and are now inhabited by descendants or by those otherwise allowed to own a house there. Well, less a house as more a shack on stilts… But glancing inside you could see that these were pretty spacious shacks; and it was a fascinating little community that we walked through:

See? It’s not unlike a Malaysian Venice.

And so to the fourth and final stop: Cornwallis, the old fort in Penang that was established by, yes, the Brits. And here’s the intrepid Captain Francis Light himself:

Fort Cornwallis was actually pretty dire: a delapidated little area that was part museum, part falling apart, sea-faring theme park. They even blast out classical music as you walk around. And for no apparent reason, there are three semi-wild ponies roaming the place. Very odd.

One advantage to taking photos alongside someone who works in a photographic place is that, upon completion of the film, you can just hand it over to them for processing :-). If any of them turn out to be any good, I’ll get them scanned and posted too. In the meantime, you can see the rest of today’s shoot over here. And yes, they include obligatory pictures of - you guessed it - teeny tiny cats! Hurrah!

My friend N back home told me that he wants me to “have more adventures”.

So I told him about the following:

1. On Saturday night, I found myself drinking champagne in the VIP area of a nightclub with a) a guy who “owns” SE Asian streetwear culture (I think I understand what that means), in the way that one “owns” such things, as opposed to, say “owning” a car; and b) his friend, who seems to be the Malaysian, male, Paris Hilton.

At one point while I was talking to MMPH - or I, as I shall call him (as long as that isn’t too confusing, in terms of me not talking about I/me/myself. I’m sure you’ll cope) - he pointed out his bodyguards to me, who were inconspicuously dotted nearby. Well, relatively inconspicuously. They looked a little older, and slightly more bored , than the rest of the nightclub’s clientele. But then, looking bored is probably as de rigueur in a VIP area as drinking Moet. I don’t know. It was the first time I’ve done such a thing, and I felt like P Diddy.

2. On Sunday, someone I know out here called to offer me what can only be described as “protection” following last week’s nasty event. I think you’ll forgive me if I don’t go into details about this, but suffice it to say that the U word was used. The U word being the title of a film starring Kate Beckinsale.

*Gives wide-eyed stare*.

I have to say I am both comforted, and yet not, by their kind offer.

Now, are those adventures enough for you? Because I think they are for me.

To see the teeny tiny Malaysian cat, of course!

I realise that it’s hard to convey its size through a photo, but see above and note its placement by the table leg, plus the fact that I’ve just looked down and taken a photo of it like that, without a zoom lens.

That’s one teeny tiny feline.

I know what you’re thinking: where on earth did you espy such amazing fauna, Andrea? Well, the answer is over lunch today. Which looked something like this:

Ahh, how times have changed since my vegetarian days!

(That’s not a pool of blood, btw).

My lunch companion was J, the DJ at the jazz club, and our mission was not only lunch, but the purchasing of some jazz CDs for him to play in the bar.

J knows pretty much nothing about jazz - which isn’t his fault, but a natural result of playing ‘retro’ (what Malaysians call 80s) music, and suchlike, for local crowds. And a result of the Western Jazz CD Mountain.

The Western Jazz CD Mountain may be a figment of my imagination, but bear with me. I believe it is not unlike the EU Butter Mountain, etc - ie. one quick browse of Malaysian CD shops shows that there is clearly a paucity of jazz albums available in this country, which can only be explained by the overflow of jazz CDs available in, say, the combined branches of Tower Records in New York.

Fortunately the branch of Borders in Queensbay Mall contains the Penang Jazz CD Mountain, so we weren’t too badly off.

J insisted that we bought compilations - of uptempo, and latin, jazz - so we worked our way through the available options, with me enthusiastically explaining what was worth buying and what wasn’t, and trying to marry what I thought he should get with what wouldn’t scare the beejezus out of him. The result was this boxset and two compilations:

…those ‘Bar Jazz’ and ‘Jazz Remixed’ being Verve compilations, so not as dire as they might at first appear. And believe me, this was a lot better than the ‘Piano Moods’ alley J could have misguidedly strayed down.

Thank goodness for the jazz police!*

Together with the mix CDs I’ve made for the club, this should do J nicely for now. The mix CDs - which I fortunately burned before my Mac, and its 5,000 iTunes songs, died on me - contain all manner of upbeat jazz and jazz-related muzak (ie soul and funk), from Quincy Jones and Stevie Wonder to Vinicius Cantuaria and Brad Mehldau. I can’t tell you how great it has been to come off stage to hear some brilliant but relatively obscure track by Kate McGarry start up. And so my musical ambassadorship continues…

*speaking of which: who knew?

My lovely new friends T2 (sorry T2, there’s already a T) and HH (Chinese Malaysians get two initials) picked me up at lunchtime today. We drove along the coast to Batu Ferringhi, where we had lunch, and then on to Penang’s Tropical Spice Garden.

A sort of botanical garden-cum-jungle, the spice garden contained, among other things: herbs and spices in their wild habitat, rather like a zoo; the world’s largest leaves (possibly); the world’s coolest swing (definitely); a sign warning us not to shelter under trees, and to remain seated in the tractor; a cafe up on the hill which served massala tea; and a cat called Molly.

T2 and I sat on the huge swing and talked about our home towns, and school, and it was lovely. A truly calming, peaceful spot, where the breeze hit us and the swing swung with such smoothness.

And yet I felt a little lost.

I had an invitation to dinner tonight, too… But when I got back home (funny, I think that’s the first time I’ve called the hotel “home”), I showered off the day’s humidity (and anti-mosquito spray), called my parents on Skype - and was hit by a huge wave of home/friendsickness, and a desire for solitude and quiet. So I cancelled tonight’s dinner date (sorry, guys).

I’m sure that the vague sense of feeling ‘lost’, and the need for quiet tonight, are a hangover from last week’s events.

And thus, I suppose, it will go. Until it doesn’t go like this anymore.

And as the song says: along with the sunshine, there’s gotta be a little rain sometimes.

Here are a few pictures from the afternoon (with more here):

(Oh, and Tracy: you were right).

So, my Lost In Translation experience tonight was the scene where Scarlett Johansson and Bill Murray go to a local club, invited by their local friends.

I would put up a screengrab, but my new Macbook won’t let me take screengrabs of DVDs. Poo!

Slightly less poo is the fact that, yes, I took delivery of that new Macbook. It’s a black one. Which feels both slightly corporate, and evil. Not unlike the Darth Vader of laptops.

Here’s a picture of me taken with it on the first day. (Aww, me and my Macbook - our first day! *Sigh*). Well, Rachel, you did ask for pictures of me enjoying my life out here:

Look! You can see my bed, and lamp, and everything. And I am actually enjoying life more than I may appear to be doing in that photo.

As I just wrote in a comment to Vic, I don’t want to dwell on yesterday/the night before too much. But something struck me as I went down for lunch yesterday.

I found myself feeling incredibly subdued, and only responding quietly as I smiled and said hello back to people, and asked how they were.

And as soon as I caught myself acting like that, it suddenly hit me: I felt exactly the same way, was behaving in exactly the same way, as I did when I was bullied at school, at the age of 13/14.

And the behaviour of this person has been very similar to those bullies.

They’ve picked me not because of anything I’ve done; but probably because of what I represent, and because they needed a target. If I have upset them in anyway, then their behaviour is completely out of proportion in its anger and bile; and it’s just as childish and spiteful as that of the girls who picked me out all those years ago.

I guess that partly explains the huge shock at this happening: I haven’t experienced this for over 20 years.

And it also explains the muscle memory: which makes me subdued (those girls all those years ago succeeded in turning a confident, bubbly girl into a terrified shell of herself); and questioning what on earth I have done to cause this treatment.

But of course, with bullies, there’s precisely nothing one could do differently to avoid it happening. This would have happened whether I was, indeed, the “f****** b****” they seem to think I am; or Julie Andrews.

And there’s one crucial difference between me and the 13-year-old I once was.

Back then, I took on board every single criticism of me, whether justified or not. I wanted nothing more than for everybody to like me; and was terribly, terrifically upset if they didn’t. And as a result I did, indeed, let the bastards grind me down.

But now, I know that sometimes it really is other people that can have the problem - not you. Or, rather: me.

Especially if they don’t like Julie Andrews.

And so, rather like a bad dream, I now want to banish all thoughts of this. I don’t want to let this one event, this one person, be an overriding memory of my trip, nor undo all the goodness of all the other people I have met here.

In short, I want to draw a line underneath it all.

And here it is:

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