Chilli Crabs and London Cabs

Singapore is hot, steamy and neat, almost too neat ~ which makes Changi Village a refreshing, slightly decaying change. Our international hotel with multi-cylindrical elevators sit side by side with the expat-filled BamBooze Bar. Everyone has a job even if as menial as assistant palm frond trimmer, and happiness is a national disease. How can you smile while refusing the smallest tip? Penny, Kim and I sat down to dine at a table at the crowded 89.7 Supper Club surrounded by Singaporean Chinese, Hindus and Muslims tucking into steaming dishes washed down with tall icy fruit concoctions. Maybe this should have alerted me to the inability to order a refreshing beer. "Sorry Sir, we don't serve alcohol".

This was possibly the best chilli crab available anywhere. I'm sure a beer would have elevated it to the status of ambrosia.

Riding the Heathrow Express to Paddington (£21 for a 15 minute ride), we were soon ensconced at Basil Fawlty's London establishment, the unfortunately named Cromwell Crown Hotel. In addition to various electrical catastrophes it appears staff have difficulty distinguishing between bath mats, hand towels and bath towels. No matter, all sop up our energetic overflow. On BBC 4 a history of British heavy metal was being broadcast. Faded hairy musos in denim and leather told stories of building fan bases via screaming vocalists and overloaded Transit vans. All this while interviewing diamond geezers named Arthur, Edgar and, uh, Geezer.

Despite the hour approaching 11 pm, we make our way to the intersection of Cromwell and Gloucester Roads where a friendly pint and much frivolity can be enjoyed at the Stanhope Arms. As midnight approached, the Kiwi barman hopefully rattled a container of cutlery. No-one took the slightest notice, this being a warm Friday night in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. We exited through clouds of cigarette smoke, diminishing perfume and loud lager lads and lasses.

Nothing tops a boozy Friday night out like finishing with some fast food, however we couldn't find a kebab and had to settle for a Burger King Royale. This gave us an opportunity to view some late night street dancing and romancing. It's the same the world over, this could have been Kingston or Bondi (except for the red buses).  Wending our way home past flourishing window boxes, we encountered inebriated patrons hailing the 49 bus headed for Clapham.  Should you miss the last service you were really Up the Junction.