Day 396: The Postman Barely Rings Once

My scary adventures trying to get a Hallowe'en costume together...

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It's my second and last Hallowe'en party here in Singapore. Last year's German Porno Gandalf outfit seemed to go down quite well with the punters. This year, however, my costume has gone through several spooky revisions.

I had settled on something terrifying and topical. I ordered my Donald Trump mask and 'Make America Great Again' baseball cap on Lazada, Southeast Asia's answer to Amazon. I ordered early last week, safe in the knowledge that it couldn't possibly take that long. I was going to complement these items with my suit and the Donald's usual Republican Red tie. In the meantime, I had been perfecting my impression and coming up with some Trumpisms to wow the audience at tonight's party. However, my best-laid plans went agley once again. Yesterday, I was at home to take delivery of my items, but the postman put a delivery slip under the door, rang the bell and then was off like Fatima Whitbread. In the few seconds or so it took me to reach the door, there was no trace of him, only the delivery slip. Today is a public holiday for Diwali, so there was no prospect of collecting my items from the Singapore Post delivery office. I then discovered that the speed-of-light postman had just one of my items, and that the second had only been shipped on Thursday. I'll be able to collect them next week, but there will never be a chance to wear my Donald outfit again before he loses the election and slithers away back to his lair. So, to compound this horror story, I had the task of trying to salvage something from this wreckage; I had just one day to re-costume myself...

Fortunately, the suit premise is not so hard to adapt for other characters. For instance, one of the great horror film actors of the 20th Century was Vincent Price, and his distinctive look posed a manageable challenge to reproduce. But then I thought, who would have a hope of recognising me as a long-dead actor from such a niche genre?

And then I wondered if it was even worth the effort at all. Perhaps I could go with the suit and open-necked shirt combo, a la The Man In The Suit, John Reece, of 'Person of Interest' fame. Maybe he's not so scary unless you're a crooked cop, but he's also not challenging for these can't-be-bothered moments. I put him away as my back-up plan.

Gomez Addams wears a suit and poses just a manageable challenge by way of make-up. With a simple modification of the tie from red to black, I could make it work. But then it occurred to me, who is Gomez without a Morticia? I could just as easily pass for anyone without a lady to be my Morticia, so then I decided it was not worth the effort of having to correct people every time they mistook for me an undertaker. Lurch? Now, he also has a suit. And unless he marries Wednesday -- or Pugsley, I suppose, in these more enlightened times of ours -- he's unlikely to need another on his arm. The biggest problem with Lurch is that my haircut does not respond well to being flattened out. It's much too disobedient and looks too misshapen for a passable Lurch.

So here I am now, about to make my appearance upon the fifth revision of my costume, after a whirlwind shopping trip to cobble stuff together. I guess I look like a cross between Gomez, Lurch and Cousin Itt, but the logical extension of this is that, in the right, horrifying light, I figure I could still pass for Donald Trump...

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By:

The Imperial Orange,

29th October 2016

Day 316: Apple to the Noggin

A disappointing evening turned strange and then disappointing again...

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After being too unwell to go to last week's lesson, and in dire need of stimulation, I was determined to go dancing tonight, but I got held up by some lost shopping. As yesterday was a public holiday for independence day, I used my day off to go to the Mustafa Centre to buy some new clothes. I took my bag to the quiz with me and was clearly so overwrought by our victory (two in two for Arvo 2 now!) that I left the bag on the table. The folks at the pub know us quite well, so they knew Loyal Hamid would be back to collect his morsels of consolation soon enough and they saved the bag for me. By the time I sorted that out, it was too late to make the hour's trip to the dance studio all the way in Yishun. I had been looking forward to the light relief so much that I started to feel an "episode" coming on as my best-laid plans went agley again.

By now, I have become quite good at trying to mitigate the worst of these episodes by squeezing something vaguely satisfying out of bad experiences -- with mixed success, it must be said. Also, I am a do-as-I-do kinda man, so I followed the advice I gave to all of you by going to try a new hawker centre, Newton Food Centre, for another of my silent and solitary dinners. Newton is one of the biggest and most renowned hawker centres in Singapore. I got there at just about half past seven, and it took about 15 minutes to explore all the stalls. There's plenty of choice there, but probably seafood was the most prevalent cuisine. It's the kind of place where they are accustomed to tourists and are on the lookout for anyone who looks like an ang mo, whom they will then shout at in an attempt to get Western custom. I am not an ang mo, but in a certain light –  such as hawker centre beige – I can do a passable impression of one.

I settled on a Thai place with a reasonably long queue, and the lady taking the orders said it would be a 15-minute wait. It's not Michelin-guide levels of hankering, but it's certainly a much longer wait than people would normally settle for, so I thought it must be good. Anyway, I was in no hurry, so I ordered the green curry and went to buy a cold drink while waiting. It didn't really work, though, the enjoyment was spoiled by my lack of appetite. I got through most of the rice, but didn't enjoy it as much I should have done.

Defeated, I resolved back home to seek solace in my final salvation (tea) and, on the way back into my condo, was accosted by a German who spoke with a French accent (and looked like Zlatan Ibrahimovic). He asked if I lived there. Suspicious, I answered that I did. He then asked for the block, but I asked for an explanation of what he wanted. He said he lived in block 6 and that his friend was coming to see him. To prove this, he showed me an exchange of messages on his phone, which was in German (that's how I knew that the German who spoke with a French accent was, indeed, German). He told me his friend's name, but it sounded like he was saying "Boulangerie". The German conversation was not all that helpful to me, so he took it upon himself to translate the exchange into English (he could have been saying anything!). His problem, I was told, was that he had to get into a taxi and leave before Boulangerie got there. Some friend, I thought. He then tried to hand me his door keys, saying that I should go up to my apartment and drop the keys out of the window when Boulangerie arrived so that he could let himself in while the German who spoke with a French accent was out. All this was undermined by one fatal flaw, which the German who spoke with a French accent had not yet considered. And then he screeched, "Drat!" (like Dick Dastardly). "You don't have internet!" That was a tad presumptuous, I felt. What he meant was what I would not know when Boulangerie arrived, which side of the apartment I should toss the keys out of, or if it was even the right person I was aiming for! Then he walked off in search of a less impractical solution to his problem. I guess that waiting for Boulangerie before making off in a taxi was not an option.

I'm at home now, being salvaged by tea. And all I can think now is that I should have called in at a boulangerie on the way home, for a sweet pastry to have with my tea...which is depressing.

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By:

The Imperial Orange,

10th August 2016

Day 268: Re-Thermalising Plasma Cells

Here is my review of 'Independence Day: Resurgence', which made its debut in Singapore this evening. (No spoilers.)

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Not since 1997 has Jeff Goldblum had the pull to draw millions of people to the cinema to watch him save the world. Over the next few weeks, he will taste that sweet power once more, as he reprises his role as the sharp-tongued intellectual mothership David Levinson in 'Independence Day: Resurgence', the long-awaited sequel to ID4...that's 'Independence Day', not 'Independence Day 4'.

How fitting that this film should invade cinemas around the world on the day that could forever be known as the United Kingdom's independence day if a certain vote that everyone keeps talking about goes one way.

Anyway, I don't know if I would last very long in the ID universe, because I have no patience. Rather than waiting for the re-thermalised plasma cells to heat up to whatever temperature they're supposed to get to, I'd want to chuck 'em right at the scaly space invaders as soon as I could get my hands on them! How about that for cold fusion? Then again, it is a ubiquitous flare for near-suicidal levels of impetuousness that wins the day in films like these, and that seems to be a prevailing theme in 'Resurgence'. How can a race of even the most technologically-advanced psychic aliens possibly hope to defend themselves against a species that doesn't even know what it is doing, let alone its attackers, and behaves in ways so unpredictable that not even the world's leading diviner, the First Minister of Scotland, could fully account for its actions? Luckily for the Earthlings, the aliens have been taking shooting lessons from Star Wars stormtroopers, and they must have bought their weapons off the Galactic Empire, too.

Perhaps it was with this suicidal flare for impetuousness that I turned out with my troupe to watch one of the very first showings of the film in Singapore. Ever the impatient man, I was not prepared to wait for absent friends who are presently out of the country but who want to see the film when they get back. No! I will not be sated until I have seen it. More than anything else, I will not have the film spoiled for me, so you'd be a fool to rival any one of the characters if you didn't take your chance as soon as it was presented to you.

Of course, no science fiction film is plausible without plausible but fictional science. And there's no shortage of that in 'Resurgence'. The re-thermalised plasma cells were one example of many. (What do you suppose a thermalised plasma cell is? Does it come with a warning saying "Do Not Reheat"?) But by far the most stunning of the sci-fi discoveries was cold fusion, a technology supposedly possessed by the aliens in the first film, and which we harvested from them. Yes, the aliens are apparently so good at cold fusion that they can't do it...you discover this contradiction if you know what you're looking for. You're not supposed to think about that, though. The fictional science is technical words jumbled together into gibberish. It's supposed to confuse the viewer unless you know it's gibberish. Either way, you will think it gibberish, so I guess it works.

I'm not sure they could have come up with cheesier lines if they had hired Ken Dodd to write the script. But then at some other points, it was quite slow (maybe those bits were written by Alan Yentob). Levinson was on top form with the dry one-liners, but some characters spoke only in cliches, and other characters were walking cliches, none more so than President Hard-Nose. Such a cliche was she that just about the most shocking thing about her unintentionally-comical character is that she didn't unzip her skin to reveal that she was Morgan Freeman all along. (Some of you who pay attention to Hollywood disaster films might have been expecting that to happen, but I don't think that technically counts as a spoiler). Well, that's Roland Emmerich for you!

I imagine we should be grateful that in this film, unlike in the original, we see glimpses of a few choice non-American cities before they are reduced to rubble. But, dear reader, how much did the French government pay '20th Century Fox' for that scene? And you may ask yourself the same question when you get there. What you must remember, though, is that once those non-American cities are reduced to rubble, their populations apparently either all die in unison or become positively catatonic in their passivity, for we hear nothing of them again. Once again, our non-Freeman heroine of a US President must bear the burden that her utterly toothless allies have unwittingly forced upon her by agreeing to appear in a Roland Emmerich film and being reduced to nothing more than glorified talking buddies. Well, that's Roland Emmerich for you!

Don't expect 'Resurgence' to be a masterpiece in screenwriting, for it is riven with plot holes so big that not even Boba Fett could fail to hit them. One of the first things we must inevitably conclude at the start of the film is that David Levinson, or the people working for him, are not as sharp as they lead us to believe they are. In the original, the most significant stumbling block to the eventual human victory was the aliens' invisible shield, which all of their ships had. And all of their ships still have it. The only trouble is that, despite -- one assumes -- not having forgotten how they defeated the aliens the first time by having to disable their shields, everybody seems not to notice or care about this very much. When their memory is jogged by some meaty suicidal impetuousness on the Moon base, they simply carry on not caring about it much. When the uber-alien fleet arrives at Earth, there is, at first, some incredulity that they once again failed to notice a 3,000-mile spaceship sailing into the Solar System, but rest assured for this incredulity soon turns to casual apathy, too.

It is not all bad, though. The sense of foreboding of the terror that is about to come is created very powerfully in the first half-hour of the film, with fleeting but casual peculiarities and the odd occurrence that makes you shiver. One of the most terrifying lines of the film is when a butt-naked Dr Brackish Oaken (played by Lieutenant Commander Data) stumbles into a top-secret secret meeting at Area 51 and sees the security footage of imprisoned aliens suddenly going wild. "Why are they screaming?" asks Mae Whitmore. "They're not screaming," replies Data. "They're celebrating."

What 'Resurgence' does not lack is action, plenty of it. The original romped home with the Academy Award for Best Visual Effects, and I absolutely expect that 'Resurgence' will be nominated, too. The CGI has come on leaps and bounds, and is now both seamless and convincing for the most part.

1996's ID4 will always have a special place in the cold, black hearts of misanthropes the world over, but 'Resurgence' is brash, nonsensical fun. The sense of the spectacular is always strong with Roland Emmerich. Say what you like about his scripts, but you will not leave the cinema without a customary rollercoaster ride.

Expect another sequel. The original mothership was, as one suit put it, "one-fourth the size of our Moon". The 'Resurgence' "harvester" that was really in charge of the original fleet is 3,000 miles wide. You can be sure that somewhere out there, lurking even further away, there is a Solar System-sized Alex Salmond, who is royally pissed off that independence day still hasn't come.

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By

The Imperial Orange,

23rd June 2016

Day 197: Floorless Logic

Another Wednesday, and another dutiful trip to the Nee Soon East Community Club in Yishun...

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What is the third floor? What if it's not called that? Is the third floor by any other name still just as mysterious? Does the third floor only exist, if at all, by the mutual consent of those doing the naming of les étages? Are all floors merely a construct of our neoliberal minds longing to escape from their patriarchal oppressors to a higher plane of existence...or just suffering from the oppressive heat in increasingly neurotic ways?

These were the philosophical brambles in which I caught myself while I ate another solemn dinner at the hawker centre outside Yishun MRT this evening. In East and Southeast Asian cultures, the number 4 is considered inauspicious. In some parts of China, you may find buildings with no fourth floor; the lift will take you from 3 to 5. But of course there is a fourth floor; it's just labelled as "5" or, more correctly, "6". So too for the number 13 in the West. To this day, there are hotels that lack a 13th floor, at least by name. 

In Singapore, we do not do things this way. We use "levels", and this is presumably to avoid confusion between the Limeys and Yanks. But when you are explicitly instructed to go to the third floor, this only perpetuates the confusion in a system where floors are not labelled thus! So the third floor might be level 3 or it might be level 4. In some places, level 1 is below ground, so maybe the third floor is level 4 or level 5! Perhaps you should not be surprised, then, if you arrive at a dark and silent room no matter which level or floor you go to!

I expect you're all wondering where this is going...if you've made it this far. This cheesy song will reveal all.

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By 

The Imperial Orange, 

13th April 2016

Day 190: Danse Macabre

Another week, another attempt at dancing...

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After having a disagreement with last Wednesday's lunch, I fell ill in the evening and missed the dance class, so I resolved to make it there today. I had a light lunch to make sure that it didn't come back to haunt me in the evening.

The lessons are, apparently, held at a place called Nee Soon East Community Club, which is in the north of the island. As far as anyone who lives and works in the south is concerned, it might as well be in Russia. The last time I went to the north of the island I was on my way to Malaysia to have my computer fixed. I am still not entirely sure what they do all the way up there.


Anyway, after an hour's journey, I arrived at Yishun MRT, the closest railway station to the venue. Indeed, there are several possible locations you might end up in, if you do not keep your wits about you. As well as Nee Soon East Community Club, there are North, South and Central flavours. It seems the good people of Nee Soon are not for mixing with rival compass points. Fortunately, I have the eyes of a deranged bird with passable vision; I spotted this little detail in the map, so I had that base covered and started in an eastwards direction upon exiting the MRT. It was only a few minutes' walk, and I confidently arrived at the club with ten minutes still to spare, ample time to find the right room. There was a basketball court, an indoor tennis court, another room where kids were practising martial arts, and two dance studios to choose from! I didn't know which one was the correct one, so I applied the principle of spring cleaning and went to the top floor to work my way down. I checked both dance studios and walked around every floor for some sign of the dancers or the teacher. I can only imagine that they must have been expecting me, and had turned all the lights off and hidden under the tables in the hope that I might think they weren't in! Well, it worked – they were nowhere to be found!

And then I started experiencing my tingly anxious and depressed tingles again. After giving up the ghost and beginning to head back to the MRT, I was overcome by the thought of another night sitting at home in silence, which is only really a problem if I have plans that are thwarted! I didn't feel the need to take my tablets with me as I seldom need them when I am doing an activity. It became a race against time to get home, but it wouldn't be the first time that's happened! This time, I only once had to take shelter in the MRT toilet to recompose myself, so I suppose that's an improvement. Having narrowly averted a panic attack, I made it home and have found solace in my only true salvation: tea. However, tonight I will have to burn through another of my sleeping tablets. That is good stuff! They knock me out stone-cold for eight hours until I can't remember what the problem is any more! More on that another day.

Someone up there really doesn't want me to dance.

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By,

The Imperial Orange,

06th April 2016

Day 159: Cat, Lost & Served With Vinegar

A peculiar, but enjoyable, day, starting with a trip to the theatre...

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I went to see a play today. It was called 'Cat, Lost & Found' and was staged at The Arts House theatre, which is located just behind Parliament House and is a beautiful example of colonial architecture.

It was the first act of a peculiar day. The play was staged by the youth wing of the Creative Edge production company, which features among its talents a British artistic director (and qualified botanist, apparently) called Brian Seward.

The play was advertised thus:

"How far will you go to be together with the one you love? Originally staged by the Finger Players, 'Cat, Lost & Found' explores themes of love, loss and what happens when nothing is quite as it seems. Featuring a quirky cast of characters including a salesman, his dead mother, a Malay movie hero and 500 ghosts, 'Cat, Lost & Found' tells an unconventional love story between a cat and his usher.

"Directed by Jonathan Lum, 'Cat, Lost & Found' is the showcase culmination of 12 months of intensive training in physical theatre, puppetry, mask and live acting by Creative Edge - Theatre Training Ensemble, I Theatre’s youth training wing."

And this I found intriguing. It seemed to me a prospect of mixing the dramatic with the quirky (which I like) without tipping over into the surreal (which I don't like). So I decided to give it a go.

While people were taking their seats, there was a preamble to the play, which featured a few of these ghosts - with empty expressions on their faces - walking about among the audience, occasionally sitting down in random places, staying there still for a few moments, and then walking about again.

The play began with the usher of the description ushering a cinema-goer to his seat and then, wasting no time at all, beginning to look for her lost cat, Angel, right there while the film begins to play. The film was a rather gruesome Malay piece acted out with people dressed like Southeast-Asian caricatures of Punch and Judy, but with the added moralistic touch that the hero of the piece did not periodically beat his wife. This Malay film couple had a cat, too...and, in keeping with the style of the film, the cat was also rather gruesome, although it was not lost.

Anyway, Angel soon appeared, and we discovered that this was no ordinary usher-cat relationship. The moggy tried to court the usher in a very un-feline way, by speaking to her and attempting to persuade her to marry him. I wasn't sure if this was because he liked her, or because he was merely trying to prove to her that he wasn't gay (a prospect hinted at when she placed a pink collar around his neck). The usher ultimately rejected Angel on the perfectly reasonable grounds that he was a cat, proclaiming that if he had been a man, she would have accepted! This led me to wonder if she had ever heard the fairy tale of the Frog Prince. Had she done so, she might have considered planting a big wet one on her feline admirer, just to see what would happen! But perhaps it would have left a mousy taste in the mouths of the $28-per-ticket audience if the resolution of the problem had come quite as swiftly as that.

Back to our cinema-goer, who had until this point exhibited saintly levels of patience in just sitting there and trying to watch this macabre Malay film while the inter-species marriage cacophony unfurled quite rudely behind him. For reasons never alluded to in the play, we are supposed to believe that he is a salesman. Thinking that he might as well get in on the act (possibly weighing up his chances favourably on the basis that she almost said yes to a cat), the salesman, too, decided to propose to the usher. But he reckoned without the interference of Angel, who, apart from displaying the ability to speak and reason, also had a murderous jealous streak. Angel developed an insatiable urge to kill the salesman, and possess his body so that he might become a man and marry the usher. And thus they began to brawl. The fight took them all the way out to the street, where Angel was struck and killed by a passing SBS Transit bus being driven by an Indian in a red turban (this fact is deemed sufficiently important to be mentioned more than once). You would think that Angel's fall would strike something of a terminal blow to the usher's quest to be reunited with her lost cat, but this play has plenty more to offer in the way of bizarre.

Ravaged by guilt for bringing about Angel's untimely demise, the salesman went to visit his mother to ask her advice. I'm not quite sure where she was, but maybe she fancied herself a bit of a film buff, because her house looked remarkably like the cinema they started in. When her son arrived, the Salesman Mother emerged like a Chinese Dracula from under a bench, where I guess she had been sleeping. I can only guess as much based on my astute observation that she was dressed in pyjamas, but I can't be sure...because she stayed in her pyjamas for the entire play, regardless of where she was or what she was doing.

That's when the gruesome husband in the macabre Malay film emerged from within the cinema screen and set about slicing up 3000 Singaporeans (and one chicken) over the course of ten days, in a quest to avenge the death of his brother. He spoke entirely in Malay, and the audience was provided with English subtitles. Like Bill Murray in 'Lost In Translation', I was certain that he was saying a lot more than the translation suggested, because he was going on with his pronouncements for a while. Still, who's to know? (Apart from the Malays, of course.)

And that's when things got weird. I won't spoil the ending in case they do a world tour. Needless to say, the fates of the gruesome Malay cat, the unencumbered (and unhinged) spirit of Angel, the constantly sleepy Salesman Mother, the 500 ghosts, the macabre Malay actor, his macabre wife, the usher and the salesman were all interwined. The story culminated at an anthropomorphic pedestrian crossing, played by someone with enough skill as a character actor to do a passable impression of a pedestrian crossing (yes,the beeping noises, too!).

In the end, I'm glad I went to see it. If you can overlook the occasional difficulty in following the story - which comes naturally as a consequence of a production with a constrained budget - then there is great fun to be had, as well as some good old-fashioned satire. The puppetry was done well, they began to explore important themes, and they did a good job of creating a suitable atmosphere with the ghosts.

After the play, we went for dinner at Clarke Quay Central, a major shopping centre near Chinatown. It was there that we came across a vegan kitchen in the food court and opted for various assorted burgers. The peculiarity continued here, though, because with our meals we were each presented a volume of vinegar to drink. We received these in glasses too big to take as shots but too small to last. We were instructed to drink these before the meal, which made me wonder if they were trying to mask the taste of the food! We weren't the only sceptical ones. I noted people's eyes bulging out of their sockets as different people at other tables were served their vinegar drinks. But we played along. I found mine to be quite nice. It was just flavoured slightly with apple. I gather that there was also a peach vinegar to be had...perhaps in the unlikely event that it's the apple flavouring that turns out not to be your thing.

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By

The Imperial Orange,
06th March 2016

Day 144: All Flied Out

Now that I am more settled in my accommodation than I ever was before, I have set my priorities on finding things to do with my time. My quest for a good dance school continues, as does my attempt to convince the National Cadet Corps to allow me volunteer in some capacity, and my Mandarin Chinese course is set to begin next week. In the meantime...

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Today I went to the Singapore Airshow on the easternmost edge of the island. It was okay, but not a patch on the way we do it back home.

Photos were at a minimum because I realised too late that my camera did not have sufficient battery power left after its exploits on Mount Faber two weeks ago. The few photos I did take were, therefore, on my phone camera and show Andrew and Sanu standing in front of poorly-defined grainy things. Most were taken in a hurry, in the short moment before some unsuspecting and overwrought local jumped unawares in front of the camera, so you might forgive us if it looks like we only stopped for cheerful photo opps while running away from the Blair Witch.

The afternoon aerobatics display was adequate, if a little on the short side. Again, the overwrought locals were cheering and clapping wildly. But, having seen what the Red Arrows can do, I can assure you that the Black Eagles display team - provided to Singapore courtesy of South Korea - does not hold a candle to the Red Arrows.

The smattering of photos of this occasion, as well as the considerable quantity of Mount Faber photos, will be provided to you at a surprising moment of my choosing (when I can find the will to go through them). Watch this space.

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By,

The Imperial Orange,

20th February 2015

Day 116: Mustafa Been Having A Laugh

Today, the time came again for me to brave another sojourn to the Mustafa Centre. My mission was to buy a new suitcase for my move to Holland Village next weekend...

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After my first excursion to the 24/7 department store known as the Mustafa Centre, in October, I wrote about just how dazzlingly enormous it is. A few of you then asked for photos to illustrate its size. I went back today to buy a new suitcase in preparation for moving into my new Holland Village condo next weekend. Last time, I had got lost among a healthy supply of Samsonite luggage at Mustafa for a good price, so I knew they were somewhere in there.

Unfortunately, it's just so big that fitting it into one photo is nigh on impossible! I did take one from a painstakingly oblique angle looking down Syed Alwi Road. I have highlighted the various sections of the store. In between is a road that runs perpendicular to Syed Alwi Road and cuts the building in half...but that doesn't stop them! Mustafa just starts again on the other side of the road and carries on!

You have to go with a plan. You have to know what you want. So that you can get in and out as quickly as possible before the throngs of crazed Singaporeans trample you in their insatiable lust for materialism. It can be, as you know from my account of my first trip, an overwhelming place on your first few visits, before you've mapped your way around enough sections to be able to find the most tolerable route to the thing you want! This time, I remembered that entrance 6 is the easiest one to get in from: that is the one nearest to the foreground in the photo. Entrance 6 leads into the relatively peaceful pharmaceuticals section, dozens of aisles of First Aid supplies, cosmetics, over-the-counter medicines, shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste, shaving razors! I remembered that the luggage section is the one above the 25 aisles of chocolates and sweets, so that was where I tried to get to first. It wasn't hard to find. You just follow the screams of excited children and hear them turn into banshees as their parents try to drag them away from the reassuring certainty of dental work.

From the tooth decay aisles, it is a few minutes walk round to the escalator. When on the right floor, I looked around a few moments, swinging this way and that around aisles of miscellaneous travel items about halfway down the section. And then I spotted the luggage along the back wall - only if I squinted and concentrated really hard! - and checked my watch. It was 11:41 as I began my walk to the luggage area, which comprises at least 17 aisles of suitcases, hand luggage, backpacks and bags! When I got there, it had taken me nine minutes to traverse half the length of this one section. If you're following along, then I was now in the middle ground of the photo, where the road cuts the store in half.

It seems that the most popular luggage brands among the Mustafa clientele are Swiss Polo and American Tourister, for their products make up the bulk of the range. But I was not here to settle for those! There is a good range of Samsonite specimens to browse through, small ones, large ones, medium ones, large-medium ones, small-medium ones, handheld ones! All of them in three or four colours, too. I took about ten minutes to examine the largest ones for prices and hiding places, but was happy with my choice ultimately, for which I paid $262 (~£125).

It was only on the way back down again that I got lost. I had to take a few trips around the underwear before I realised I was going in circles. So getting out of the place took some 15 minutes, and I didn't really know which door I ended up coming out of, but it all worked out well because it happened to be near the bus stop.

There aren't many places back in the UK where you can find such a large Samsonite trolley suitcase for £125. If you're prepared to brave the Mustafa Centre, it won't disappoint. Every consumable that exists is right there, and little of it is too expensive.

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By:

The Imperial Orange.

23rd January 2016

Day 110: Bin and Gone

To prepare for my impending move from Geylang to Holland Village, I intended to buy a new suitcase. At the Mustafa Centre, Singapore's 24/7 department store, they do an affordable line of Samsonite [other brands are also available], so that was of course where I singularly failed to go today. Instead, I was lazy and put off the trip.

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In the 200,000-year history of the Homo sapiens, few members of this ingenious and adaptable species can claim to have achieved what I did today.

While out doing my usual Sunday afternoon grocery shop in Paya Lebar, I stopped off at a cafe and bought a takeaway drink. I ambled around some shops and got through it. Eventually, I set about searching for a dustbin to dispose of my empty cup, and I saw one on a traffic island across the road. It was of the sort with grey and black streaks because it has the vertical metal bars and a bucket inside (like the rather attractive one here:http://img.edilportale.com/…/prodotti-158119-relde4b126d6a7…

). As I was at a pedestrian crossing already, I thought it would do nicely! So I waited dutifully for the green man, which is a national pastime here in Singapore.

As I began to cross the road, I readied myself in preparation for slam-dunking the cup into the bin in one smooth manoeuvre as I passed it on the island. I took aim, but then, just as I was about to release the cup, something extraordinary happened! When I was halfway across the road, the bin sprouted legs and started dashing off in the opposite direction, causing me to stop dead, right there in the middle of the road, and gaze in astonishment at the sight before my eyes.

The mystery was soon solved when I looked up and saw the bouncy hairdo on top of the "bin", realising then that it was no bin at all, but a woman in grey-and-black stripey trousers. She had just been standing on the traffic island, waiting for the green man with her legs together, and I almost came along and threw a drinks cup at her! (I wonder if that's a capital offence...) Fortunately, there actually was a bin on the island - the woman had obscured it by standing in front of it - a green one unmistakable for a person, so I managed to throw my cup away without attracting any glares. But it took two movements rather than one, so I failed in my mission.

How many Homo sapiens in history can say they have mistaken a pair of trousers for a dustbin? What's more, how many Homo sapiens can say that they have been mistaken for a dustbin?

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By:

The Imperial Orange,

17th January 2016

Day 100: Laced with Sin

Today marks 100 days since I moved to Singapore. To celebrate, I was tempted by darkness...

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See that there building in that there link, the one that looks like the over-sized shipping containers stacked atop each other? (http://buro-os.com/the-interlace/) Yes, that one. It is called The Interlace, and it is a condominium in South Singapore, designed by some German bloke called Ole Scheeren (no relation to Ed) and completed in 2014. It contains 1,040 apartments. In November 2015, The Interlace was awarded first place in the 'World Building of the Year Award' at the World Architecture Festival (https://www.worldarchitecturefestival.com/congratulations-2015-waf-winners). I must say, I didn't think it looked all that extraordinary. It was nice enough, but the best building in the world? Who's to say?

Today, I got my own personal tour of this acclaimed building when I went to view one of its 12th-floor apartments. And it is not until you have been inside it, or even on top of one its many roof gardens, that you get a feel for why this complex won the award. There is no conceivable way, given the orientations of the "containers" with respect to each other, that you could get the same view from two different roof gardens, and that's part of the excellence of it. The landlady, Trace, took me up to the 13th-floor roof garden, and the views of Singapore from there are staggering. We could see the ocean and even Sentosa, Singapore's famous beach island off the south coast. I am told that the views of the Chinese New Year fireworks in February will be particularly impressive from the roof garden.

In addition to the multiple roof gardens, the condo boasts its own residents' gym, games room, three karaoke rooms, a 50-metre swimming pool (if you're into that sort of thing), three tennis courts, a running track, a spa (with sauna and jacuzzi), a study room with desks, charging points and Wi-Fi, a cinema, a barbecue pit, a residents' cafe and a residents' grocery shop. With a mere 1,040 apartments, you might imagine it would get pretty crowded. But the unique design ensures that every container operates as its own self-contained block, with no awkward after-you polkas in the lifts.  So, living at The Interlace is probably about as close as the mere mortal could get to sinful opulence.

For the price of $1500 pcm (£705) - which, believe it or not, is not too far off the average rent for a condo in Singapore - I could have myself a room in Trace's apartment. She lives there with her partner and a French student. The three seem to be quite close, often eating together, watching TV and even going cycling in Sentosa of a weekend. I think I could fit in quite well. The room is the smallest in the apartment, but still large enough for my needs. And, in many years, I could tell anyone that cared to listen that once upon a time I lived in the World Building of the Year. The only catch as far as I can tell is that Trace and her partner are Liverpool supporters, but the Hammers' recent 2-0 victory over Liverpool means that they're unlikely to shout it out too loudly.

I have a few more viewings lined up over the coming days, and perhaps I will find one that suits my needs more. For instance, the location of The Interlace is not ideal. It is a fair way from the nearest MRT (railway) station, but they've even thought of that by laying on a complimentary shuttle service in the mornings and evenings! Nevertheless, my early conversations with the landlords and tenants of other properties have been promising, so I am hopeful that I will find a good place to take out a long-term contract for the entire year or even for the remainder of my time here in Singapore, whether that be at The Interlace or elsewhere.

Back in September, I had huge trouble even eliciting a response to my enquiries about properties, because of the thinly-disguised racism of some landlords in this country. This time, I have prepared a story in the event that someone should accuse me of being Indian: my dad is called Dave, and he is a builder from Thurrock, where he does "Dave the builder from Thurrock"-type things like drinking horrible-tasting beer and voting Labour. That's if anyone asks, which they haven't yet, except by way of making conversation.

Today marked a meaningless but symbolic milestone: 100 days of living in Singapore. By the end of his first 100 days as US President, Franklin D Roosevelt had ended the Great Depression. It takes our entire Earth only that long to travel over 160 million miles around the Sun. While the Earth lilted underneath it, Apollo 11 could go to the Moon and back 12 times in 100 days. My own "First 100 Days" draw to a close, but I cannot boast of any such grandiose achievements as I sit squarely in my dank HDB in Geylang, lamenting the four-month delay in the opening of my research labs, and hoping that I haven't done anything else to warrant another telling off from my housemates! But perhaps the tide - which goes in and out 200 times in 100 days - is about to turn in my favour...

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By,

The Imperial Orange,

7th January 2016