Ann Siang Hill

Today I left my comfort zone having explored every single shopping mall in Orchard and decided to visit a different area. I had read that there was a modern furniture shop in China Town and since I will be moving soon to my new home and I am missing a sofa and a dining table I decided to check it out.

So off I went to Ann Siang Hill which is behind the hustle and bustle of China town. To get there you need to climb behind the hawker centre until you reach a junction. At the far end of the junction there is a little park. This area used to be a nutmeg and cloves plantation. It was owned by a Captain Scott who evidently did not know much about plantations and maybe knew more about sailing because not much grew there due to lack of a good water source and the presence of parasites. At the end of the 1800's he sold the land to the Ann Siang estate who immediately saw this as an opportunity to build shop houses. These are still existing today but instead of having being turned into homes they are still shops and quirky restaurants. One row of these peranakan shops is all painted black and looks really sleek. Another one has been painted white and looks fresh and bright. Others are decorated with bright ceramic tiles and they all have a little porch on the front. For unknown reasons the are quite elevated above the road and with 2 giant and steep steps connecting to it so it is a hike but it's good for the butt. The only strange thing is that the windows are either made of frosted glass or are dark so it is not possible to see what the shop is selling. The little tables set up for 4 outside under the the porch are a dead give away but in any other case it is not always easy to see what is being sold and if it is interesting so in the end you just don't go in. I suppose you need to know where you are going so window shoppers and time wasters are discouraged.

Fireworks at Marina Bay

Last Saturday we decided to take a walk along the Promenade to check out the Singapore Flyer (equivalent to the London Eye) and the track for the Formula 1 race that will take place in September. The last section of the track was closed to the general public due to some racing event that involved some very noisy cars and a lot of driving around in circles generally making a lot of racket and not really going anywhere. Toys for boys I suppose since Max seemed to be rather taken by this event while I was a bit bored and thought the whole thing slightly pointless. However the weather was good and the track overlooks the ocean so the view made up for the noise. We then ambled back to the entrance and sat down on the dock with our feet dangling over the water and an ice cream listening to the swallows chirping happily and diving towards the surface of the water trying to catch small insects.

Night falls rapidly at the equator so after a short while it turned dark and we decided to go to watch a movie at the museum. Old classics are shown at an outdoor theatre called "under the banyan tree" and I have always loved the idea of outdoor movies but while walking to the underground we saw a large number of people moving towards what seemed to me like some big parking lot. Intrigued we decided to divert our course for a while and see what it was all about. Before we knew it we were channelled into the entrance of the new youth sporting centre that sits opposite the new Marina Bay Sands Hotel and is accessible via a bridge whose official opening was going to take place that same evening. As it was already dark we could not really see the bridge but after we sat down with a snack of fish balls in curry sauce and my favourite sugar cane juice some local Minister started blabbing about the significance of the bridge and the name it was given and the importance of it as a new landmark.

In essence the bridge is called the Helix, a name given by the public as it is built like the double helix of DNA so it stands to represent life, youth and the future. All I was thinking about was if it is was going to turn into a wobbly bridge like the Millennium one in London.

He terminated his very long speech and all of a sudden fireworks exploded from the bridge finally illuminating it and showing the beautiful shape and form. It really looked like a strand of DNA and acrobats on stilts dressed in flowing drapes and gowns danced along the bridge like giant butterflies. All in all a lovely evening, outdoor movie the next time.

Culture difference and the subtle art of F and W

I just got back from the bank after signing my life away following the purchase of our new flat. In the end the idea of renting did not appeal to us and though buying is proving to be quite an ordeal and a terrifying expense we believe that in the long run it will prove to be the best decision.

Apart from having to fork out the deposit and therefore resorting to live on chickpeas and water for the next 2 months....literally... the main issue is getting all the parties involved to move in the right direction and at the right time almost like a dance routine and this involves the correct use of the F&W technique which stands for Fuss and Whine.

Much has been said about cultural differences between the West and the East and these are noticeable even in the small things like handing out money with 2 hands in sign of respect, avoiding to touch a child's head (more on this later) and other things. However maybe Singaporeans feel more Westeners that other Asian cultures or maybe the younger generations really do not care about the old ways but I have not noticed all this difference.

They push and shove just as Londoners do to get on the bus, they will pass in front of you in the queue if they can and will generally try to pretend they do not see you in order to get their way... so nothing new there.

However we have discovered that they find it difficult to say no and if pressed in the right way they will deliver what you need even if it proves to be a real pain. So this is where the F&W technique comes in. It comes in the form of standing your ground when they say no to your request and expect you to move humbly away. A stern look on your face helps and so does crossing your arms therefore showing that you will not budge.

The request is issued again but more slowly, with a patient note that sound instead as if there is no patience left and if they still say no the look turns to an ice cold stare and the request is made again. By this time the issue is resolved.

The same can be obtained by email with a threat to follow up with a phone call and then start calling every 20 minutes until the poor soul just gives up.

So this is what we did this morning when our mortgage advisor showed a little hesitation when asked to anticipate the completion by....a full month. His hesitation was to prove fatal and my partner in crime and I exchanged the F&W NOW! look and started attacking him from both sides until he capitulated.

I am not really proud of this approach but we need to go into surviving mode and the idea of finally moving out of this residence in 1 month instead of 2 is making my heart leap and my pockets happy so, sorry, but this is how it is.

Going back to why touching a child's head is considered taboo here Lisa, a nice girl from Taiwan I met a couple of days ago explained that it is to do with the fact that a newborn has a soft head and that it can easily be damaged hence by not touching it the risk of damage is reduced so it just is not done even with an older child. I instead explained that because the head is a delicate part of the body if a child bumps into me or seems to be falling my instinctive reaction is to protect the head by placing my hand on it and I suppose this is why a caress or a light touch is common in our culture.

We looked at each other in amazement. How could the same known fact provoke such an opposite reaction and behaviour? This is the beauty of it and we decided to meet again to discuss our differences in front of an ice cream. We never have heard of any culture issue with ice cream so we should be safe!

The Esplanade

The Esplanade complex is located bang in centre, close to the CBD or Central Business District (they absolutely love acronyms in this place) and is really easy to get to...this is when it is not pouring bucket loads and when one manages not to hop on the wrong bus.

There is a theatre, a concert hall, an outside stage and other bits and pieces. When we first saw the theatre and concert hall the person we were talking to referred to them as "the porcupines" for their oval shape and spiky exterior.

I must confess that after my first visit to the wet market, and a very close and uncomfortable

encounter with a Durian fruit, I thought the buildings looked a bit like said fruit but not wanting to offend anybody I kept my big mouth shut. In the meantime I have discovered that the buildings actually owe their shape to the Durian fruit so I was not that daft after all.

Inside the Concert hall there are a couple of music shops and some restaurants and bars so once I dried out after the near doom's day miss, Max and I decided to treat ourselves to a luxurious ice cream. Considering we have been eating nothing but chickpeas lately - not literally but almost due to our imminent purchase of a home- we thought that a chocolate and hazelnut ice cream, with roasted nuts, whipped cream and a dark chocolate sauce was only fair and a testament to our sacrifices.

We then moved to the hall which is very grand, with wooden, honey coloured vertical beams that give the sense of height and a ceiling rose that connects all the beams together. The seats are large and very comfortable and we were in a good position, quite central.

Healer chickens, white magic and old spice

I have always found it difficult to understand advertising, maybe due to my scientific mind and the need for a claim to be proven or maybe because I am just thick and lack any form of mental fantasy.

In any case my glazed over eyes and ever so slightly out of focus look when presented with a new ad and my feeble excuse in the form of "I do not get it" have earned me, over the years, the resigned and vaguely disapproving look of my dear sister Lisa and lovely friend Steph, both of whom Marketing boffins and both of whom tell me smiling and gently, as a mother would to a cute but slow child, that "you are not the target".

I do confess that really only make up and pet food ads get me excited but the rest seems to me boring and vague and by the time the 30 seconds have finished I have already forgotten what the last 30 seconds have all been about. And not being the target for all but 0.01% of publicity seems to me like a lame excuse for advertising agencies to not really try hard enough to get more people to buy their stuff.

In any case the local obsession is with white. White teeth, white eyes, white skin, everything is about how white you can get. Even well known international brands of face cream mention the secret ingredient that will turn your skin as white as pearls. I wonder where this obsession comes from. Is it a silly attempt to turn oneself into a westerner or is it that the delicate features of some of these beautiful Asian girls really bloom the whiter they become?

In any case the obsession is getting to me as well and I am wondering if I should succumb and buy these magic creams.

But publicity can go too far when the local take away advertises the healing property of chicken fed on lactobacillus hence turning into a probiotic chicken, healer of all aches and pains, remover of cholesterol, asthma and bubonic plague. I mean what happened to simple corn fed chicken? The legal enforcement officer that lurks in me is shaking in disbelief!

Still, even if ads are not my thing handsome men scantily clad are so my dear girl readers click on the link and enjoy knowing only too well that you will remember what the ad is about http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owGykVbfgUE

Of Jamie Cullum and broken down buses

Max has always wanted to see Jamie Cullum (www.jamiecullum.com) in concert so when we found out he was coming to Sing we pounced on the opportunity and bought a couple of tickets to see him at the Esplanade Concert Hall. We had an infallible plan. I bought the tickets with my card on the assumption I would then pick them up 1 hour before the concert as required, meet Max for a snack and enjoy the show. But even the best laid plans often just do not work out.

It started with a hazy and cloudy day but as the concert was at 7.30pm I assumed it would clear up by then, it usually does. However by 5pm the light grey clouds had turned to menacing dark blue and green ones and just as I got ready to leave the flat hell broke loose. I had my nice big umbrella but when it rains here there is really no point venturing out unless you really have to and I had to. So in the time it took to get from the flat to the bus stop I was, as usual, wet to the bone. I knew that n36 and n111 would take me directly in front of the theatre and I was really chuffed when the 111 showed up immediately. I found a place to sit and happily freeze my wet clothes under the air conditioning and settled in for the short journey to the theatre. I would arrive in plenty of time, collect the tickets and relax until I met Max. From the start however the conductor showed signs of distress and constantly stopped the bus making a lot of fuss. After 10 minute we had only moved a couple of yards and I started getting just a tad nervous. The rain was pounding down relentlessly and the doors of the bus would not close, so after what felt like an eternity the driver turned into a road and gestured we all get off and find a different bus. Water is pouring down in thick sheets, I cannot see beyond my nose and I am getting wetter by the minute so when the 36 bus appears in front of me I do not think and just hop on thanking my lucky stars. I have my street directory with me and I follow the route just to make sure. It all seems fine until, just as I am planning to get off, the bus does a left turn when it should actually do a right one. The next thing I know the bus has entered the highway and starts the 20 minute non-stop journey to the airport which is on the opposite side of where I need to go. Panic grips me and I frantically ask a girl to tell me what is happening. The horrible truth is that confused by the rain I had taken the bus in the wrong direction and was going back to the depot rather than in centre. 20 minutes later and in a state of utter shock I get off in the middle of nowhere and start looking for a taxi to take me back. The taxi queue is 1 hour long because of the rain which is still pouring down in what looks like a rehearsal for doom's day. Time is ticking and if I don't collect the tickets they will be sold to somebody else. I only have 10 minutes left , Max is at the ticket office but according to the conditions printed on the website only the credit card holder can collect the tickets. By now panic has a total hold on me and instead of joining the queue I decide to jump in the middle of the road, hold my hand up and stop a taxi on the highway. The gamble pays off though I lose 10 years life due to fright, I skip the queue and rush to the Esplanade. I get there on the nick of time only to find out that flirty Max had flashed his big smile and suave manner as usual and collected the tickets without a hitch, without a credit card or any form of ID. I am livid but relieved and we both decide we deserve a pre-concert ice cream.

The concert was really fun but I will tell the story another time.

A walk through old shop houses

These are Peranakan shop houses. They used to belong to shop owners in the past and there are still a few antique shops but mostly now they belong to affluent expats. The ones at one end of the road have been transformed into trendy bars where the young and beautiful join after work for a drink. This means I have to go there as soon as I can. The ones to the back of the road are lived in. Many of them are being refurbished so it is not easy to see what they look like but I managed to sneak a peak through a door. There was a large room with large cushions and carpets on the floor. Light was pouring from the ceiling onto large green palm like plants. Maybe it was an open courtyard or maybe there was a glass panel turning the courtyard into a room. Carved wooden room dividers turned the room into a more usable space. There was dark wood everywhere and the walls were painted white. Overall a dark room but with the plants it gave an idea of freshness.

The front doors seem to be double. An actual door and in front of it two swinging panels like the ones you see in a western movie outside a saloon. These panels are carved with intricate drawings and I imagine they allow a bit of privacy and fresh air when the real doors are open.

Some of these homes are up for rent. I can just feel a tingling in my bones that says they are really out of my reach but I will probably get all dolled up and contact an estate agent just to see if I can view one and try to pass for a rich, eccentric lady of leisure. Will keep you posted!

The unexpected benefits of buckweat

I know that mood swings are to be expected and that it is perfectly normal to go from heightened elation to profound unease in my situation so I should just rationalise what goes through my mind and wait for all these extremes to settle down, however it is not always so easy so it's with a grumpy and foul temper that I set off to take my morning walk.

Nothing appeals to me today, the sky is grey and it rained earlier this morning meaning the air is heavy and damp, there is absolutely no breeze and I feel the world has far too many Asians living in it for my liking, the big malls look cheap and dated and everything feels fake and artificial.

I set out to complete my shopping task for the day and that is buying a pair of socks for Max. Easier said than done because sizes in this place are here, there and everywhere and clearly the shop assistant does not have a pair from an open pack to show me so I need to buy a pair and hope for the best.

This means that even my shopping experience leaves me feeling a bit deflated.

It's too hot to walk outside so I dive down the escalators of the Paragon shopping mall for a little cool air and a look at the food courts.

The food stalls are slightly different than usual and are more like little restaurants than stalls anyway. I pause at the New Zealand ice cream shop but I need to keep my resolve and remember I have a juicy banana waiting for me at home. This does nothing to help my mood though it does wonders for my hips.

Round a corner I see a little crowd in front of a window. I amble close to it to see what the interest is all about. It's a Japanese restaurant specialising in buckweat noodles. Outside the restaurant a big sign tells you about the benefits of buckweat, how it removes cholesterol, how it improves one's mental functions and how it is good for the digestive system. "Humbug" I think but still move closer to the window.

In a small space a man in chef's attire and hat is slowly but steadily flattening sheets of dough with a rolling pin. To his left a milling machine . The whole grain falls through a funnel and then it is crushed between two round stones. The flour falls onto a sieve and then it's conveyed to a bucket of white, powdery flour and one of dark grey bran. While this is happening the chef is still flattening the dough and when the sheet reaches a certain length, he stops, slowly takes out a knife and cuts it in two. At the end, when he has 6 sheets he dusts each one in flour, always painstakingly slowly and then places one on top of the other. With a knife he pairs the sides and removes the extra bits. He picks up more flour and dusts the table. Then he picks up a larger knife and a wooden block. He pairs the knife edge to the block and in controlled movements slices expertly through the dough. In a couple of seconds he has created a handful of noodles all identical in width and length. He stops, he picks up the noodles and shakes the excess flour off and then places them carefully on a sheet of paper in a tray. He repeats this operation another 5 times always slowly, always peacefully.

I am hypnotized by his movements and expertise and my mood is lifted at the joy of experiencing such beauty, of seeing something so real and so close to art. Clearly another benefit of buckweat then.

Cloudy with a chance of palm fall

When one is stuck in a residence, albeit a quite comfy one, waiting for the house to materialise or a job to appear a sort of pattern emerges. The old routine of waking up early and getting to work, then surviving it by trying to avoid executing your colleagues or customers and then returning home to prepare dinner and wash clothes while on one side seems rather boring, on the other it gives a purpose and a direction in life.

Clearly while the waking at 6am remains the rest is a hit and miss job so it is essential to create a new routine that makes sense to you.

So when Max leaves for work my first job of the day is to get the laundry sorted for the maids, read 10 pages from my latest thriller about a female assassin, work 2 hours on the PC checking out job ads, get dressed and take a walk in a new area for another 2 hours, come home exhausted and sweaty, a quick swim, skype with Mom, work another 2 hours on the PC, read a few pages more, go to the gym and feel virtuous and not fat at all, meet Max for dinner ending up feeling less virtuous and with the first signs of blubber.

In all of this it is essential that nothing disrupt the routine and ruffle feathers so it is with a light sense of unease that, upon returning to my flat after a walk along Orchard Road, I find a card informing me that the tree surgeons will be working in the garden.

The vegetation is so luxurious and green that it does not seem necessary to do any work but as with one's hair, you do not realise how ratty you look until you get your bum to the hairdresser.

So I calm down and decide that maybe it is not such a daft idea after all. Tree grooming starts while I am at the poolside working on my CV. Helmeted men climb the palm trees and with a saw start cutting away the dry, worn out fronds. Up on the trees the fronds seem light and feathery but when they fall to the ground the heavy thud clearly indicates that they are not.

All is done is a safe way, with areas cordoned off to avoid incidents to customers but even the best laid plans do not always go according......to plan.

So when a palm frond hits the water instead of the ground lots of "oh my goodness!" resound from the bathing public, children are hoisted to safety though they were on the opposite side of the pool and the sun-lotioned ladies who are just frying up gently under the sun get their heads together and comment about the incident while vigorously rubbing their little angels dry and reassuring them that all is well. This causes the little dears to enter a state of panic-cum-tantrum that might just justify a visit to the ice cream parlour.

While the drama unfolds I sit happily under a canopy, well away from the excitement but hoping that such disruption to my well oiled routine is the last one today.

Barbeques and the elusive concept of brunch

Being Easter weekend we decided to go to a wet market for some fresh fish and vegetables and have ourselves a well earned barbeque. There is nothing wrong with fish from the supermarket but it usually comes filleted, tightly wrapped in film and with a price tag that makes you decide that starving is not such a bad option after all. On the other side the wet market offers a large selection of fresh fish, just off the boat and at 5 euros a Kg for red snapper you just cannot say no. So armed with bags and sturdy shoes (it is called wet for a reason) we head off to Little India and arrive bright and early at 8am. The place is brimming with customers, mostly petite Indian ladies in colourful saris shouting and pushing to get to the best vendors. Being tall and unscrupulous Max and I brush away the competition and reach the front of the queue without too much trouble and bag ourselves a catch. The same applies to the veggie counter and it is at this moment that I pine for Claudine's presence and imagine her to be here with me to try and understand what all these strange looking veggies are and what sublime concoctions we could make together. Tired from all our shopping we head to the food vendors and have a prata, the equivalent of a very thin flat bread, with egg and cheese and a sugar cane juice.

The BBQ is a success even if, just as in the UK, the rain gets to us and we end up cooking under an umbrella and getting drenched in the process. So, a little piece of home in the tropics if not the most exciting one.

A couple of cold beers make sure we hit the bed and fall into a deep slumber until the following morning. It's Brunch day today with a group of Italian people we met through a friend of a friend of a friend etc. Knowing we will fill up on goodies later on we skip brekkie and head straight to the gym for a good hour workout. After a refreshing shower we head off to Graze, an Aussie grill specialised in brunches.

In hindsight we should have known better and the fact brunch was booked at 1pm should have raised questions but we are not used to spending time with a large bunch of Italians any more and those we do spend time with have been " patiently educated" over the years to be on time when going out with us.

So, clearly, Max and I arrive primly at 1pm, we are the first ones there and by 5 minutes past we have scanned the whole menu and are ready with our orders, plus being breakfastless we are positively starving. At 1.15pm we are still alone and the full horror of what this means starts dawning on us. It will take another 20 minutes for 15 people to trickle in lazily, having spent most of the morning in bed and getting up for breakfast at 11am hence eluding the whole concept of brunch. Once the whole crowd has gathered I start sending hints about choosing from the menu but no, it's time now to catch up on how so and so has been, what the kids are up to and what the plans are for Xmas. Max gives me a murderous look and heads off to steal chocolate eggs meant for the children while I put on a brave face and dig my elbow in my stomach to stop it from growling. Finally at 2.15pm food is ordered and service starts but it is slow and I end up being the last one to be served at 3.15pm. However I am not that badly off as one of the group is completely forgotten and never gets his order at all. After my serving of waffles and strawberries I am still hungry but avoid asking for more food as I could be stuck there until midnight.

Overall a nice afternoon out with very nice people but absolutely the last brunch with Italians unless I get to organise it.