It’s all over (over HERE)…

So this NYC chapter has ended, and another door has slammed shut in my face. Just kidding. Now the new blog, for obvious reasons is over HERE.

Toodle pip!

Helicopter view

So tomorrow heralds my first day at work. The culmination of 4 months of hard lobbying and chasing. As a record I did this through an amazing network of friends and colleagues.

It’s poetic justice that just today, for the first time since I started applying for jobs on a certain media title’s website here in Asia, I received a ‘thank you for submitting your resume email’.

Good people grow good jobs. Experience counts, networks count. But what counts most of all is REAL HUMAN CONTACT – or RHC as I will call it. The reality is it’s what we got by on for the past few thousand years before web 2.0 pulled up in its big A Team van and reclaimed conversation through the fingertips and not the mouthpiece.

Aaahhh technology, the sweet sound of inflated EPS and borrowed time, the clashing of the small person with the big idea and the big company with the small mind.

With tech, be careful what you wish for. The best we can hope for technologies that enable us to be human… not the other way round.

SEX on the streets.

The building I live in is really quite modern. It was in the NYT because of its free breakfasts – which I haven’t sampled yet, but due to the great depression I may well soon.

They take real care over how the lobby and even the street looks.

To the point where, whilst walking home from a particularly refreshing meeting this morning I was greeted by the word SEX spelt into the dirty street with a pressure washer jet.

In some circles this might well have been street-art, but to me it was a smile-maker, a welcome act of mischevious play that lightened my day.

This month’s top 10 Google searches leading here…

I tell you, this is pretty crazy. How ON EARTH is ‘unfortunate picture of jeff goldblum‘ in my top 10?

These are the top ten referrals from Google:

1. Pontiac Solstice

2. Jetblue

3. Prince Harry Nude

4.Jetblue

5. Anne Gregg “anne gregg”

6. women redneck

7. barolo, nyc

8. mans nipple

9. unfortunate picture of jeff goldblum

10. balcony design

…. oh, here’s the nipple they all speak of…

Speed Dial, the solution was there all along.

For years I’ve wanted a place where all my favourite websites were right in front of whenever I opened a window. I’m even too lazy to click on ‘bookmarks’  – and if they WERE actually bookmarks, you know, little folded down icons on mini-windows, I’d probably go for it. But they aren’t – bookmarks have pretty much stayed the same since the dawn of Netscape…

Speed Dial for Firefox, on the other hand, IS the answer. I was also envious of my friend Sean who created, in HTML a page that his browser defaulted to, spliced into 4 quadrants with  categorized links in each.

I was also always really envious of those traders and stock-brokers and I don’t mean because of their money or all those dogs for friends, I mean because they have 12 screens in front of them bringing all their information together. One of my favourite pictures of KK is him infront of this conflagration of content.

Speed Dial is a one click dynamic collector of links, arranged in thumbnails (which you can have refresh live) in a grid. One click and you’re there. It’s highly customizable and really really easy to use – I’m totally hooked. Sean, you built it – and one day recently, they came.

Food porn takes flight.

When I look back over the past few months of this blog, aside from the air-travel stuff, there’s an awful lot of references to food. One of, if not the, greatest passions of my life – it’s also been (rightly or wrongly) an emotional crutch, a distraction, a pleasure and a pain.

I have wanted to have a blog about food for so long, but have never really had a purpose, you know, something that made it different. So I went out and instead of a purpose, I found a porpoise – so the blog is all about how to eat water-park inhabitants.

It’s not, www.eatsmeetswest.biz is the blog that charts my indoctrination into an entirely new cuisine for me. Above and beyond having a Thai Green Curry in Peckham, my knowledge of real Thai food is pretty slim. Now, I’ve been to Thailand a few times and indeed, when I started this blog, the first entry was in fact a recap of my extremely expensive holiday in Phuket. When I read that now and look at me now, so much has changed – and with KK co-editing for me (he’s the brains behind the menu’s) it’s full rice steamer ahead!

Anyway, www.eatsmeetswest.biz is my our endeavour – it’s less of a blog and more of a place to store my online recipes. You know, when I started blogging, like emw.biz — I did it for me and if it was read by friends and family, well that was their benefit. This new blog is my place to keep my memories of learning, loving and longing for new foods. 

Ghin Khao!*

 

 

* Let’s eat!

The last straw?

I went on a cruise last week. I’ve wanted to have a vacation on a boat for as long as I can remember. To set sail from Manhattan, with a Tiffany blue sky is a unique experience, watching the tip of America’s centre fade away as you feel the gentle chop of waves and the brisk air against your skin. 

We were heading for Sweden, well, something Swedish actually. Ikea Redhook, for a shopping expedition. I was certain that although we had gone because we wanted to purchase just one item (a silicone spatula) that we would walk out with no end of gnargs, fnargs and komss. 

The water taxi to Red Hook is A LOT OF FUN. It’s not quite the Isle of Wight ferry, but it’s damn close (sorry Sean). It’s clean, immaculate and came in flatpack form with an allen key. Who was allen anyway?

The store really is big. I mean, like HUGE. Bigger than this season’s Real World house (currently showing on MTV, check local listings) and bigger than most of the port that surrounds it. It’s the world’s largest cobalt blue lego brick – and everything within is available in huge quantities.

So shop we did – sensibly and frugally, getting just what we needed (3 mini palm trees as 79 cents, a roasting tray, tea lights and rice bowls) and hit the cafeteria for a snack.

KK had the Chicken Nuggets and Fries – obviously to spite me. And proceeded to empty half the salt from the dead sea onto his carbohydratey goodness. 

I, on the other hand (not that KK was on my hand, as it were) had the roast salmon and vegetables. As the meal was being plated by a man who had a rare form of dyslexia that prohibited him from comprehending the phrase ‘low-fat’ his ladle dipped in to a sauce.

The salmon was 300 calories. The sauce, fruit based (Swedish) was probably 3000. I said ‘do I need that’, he said ‘it’s what you asked for’ and proceeded to deposit a bee’s nest of weight gain onto my plate. You do indeed get what you ask for.

Orange juice to accompany, in one of those irritating boxed that take a 34 year old 2 hours to open and a 2 year old 3 seconds. I looked in vain for a straw. None. Ikea are selling probably a million of these orange cartons a day and no straws. Not even the little one that used to be glue gunned onto the side of the carton. 

I walked to the cashier – who was aksing her friend something, and asked her ‘we don’t stock straws’. Who the hell ’stocks’ straws? It’s not Lladro or Petunias – it’s cutlery for drinks.

Anyway, we got it open, finished our meals and took the subway back – the thought of the water ferry at night had a ‘US Airways on Final Approach’ feel to it.

Down here with Robbie Williams.

You know, it’s been a transformative time for me… have you read Eat, Pray, Love? Anne bought it for me in Singapore and it has become a bedtime prayer, as KK prays with purpose and properly. 

It’s about a woman who divorces, falls in love, falls out of love (that bit isn’t relevant to me), and travels… moves to another part of the world to find herself (and a lot of pizza). Anne hit it on the head by buying me the book – it really struck a nerve (much like my dentist) but has done me the world of good.

Many friends of mine, new and old, have assumed that because I’ve been going through so much change, that I’m negative, defeated and lost. It’s like I’m toxic and need to be avoided. The simple line ‘you’ll be fine’ is the most irritating disloyal, disinterested line you can use if you call yourself a friend.

This is not a barbed post, nor is it negative, it’s a reflection on the simple fact that as my good friend Richard reminded me, there are friends, and there are people you know. This time has been good for me because the former have proved themselves and the latter, remain, well the latter.

I’m excited, I’m passionate, I’m evolving and I’m actually more energized, more determined and more positive than I may have been in a year or so. The trials that I’ve been through and the challengesI’m working on (I don’t mean to sound like a focus group moderator, it’s just they are not all bad)  are making me THINK and DO and that’s been incredibly positive.

I finally now know who I am, what I want and I’ve learnt to deal with every day as it arrives – why worry about tomorrow when you can leave it to, err,  tomorrow?

Teeth.

Your body works with you. That’s always been my belief. That’s a lie, it became my belief when almost all the other constituents of my life felt like they were crumbling away. At that point, my body whispered in my ear ‘hey fatty it’s time to get real’. And the millions of times my mother had told me to ‘put my health first’ seemed to finally sink in.

Your mouth frames your words and your teeth are the keys of your vocal piano – I hadn’t seen to my keys for a number of years (5+) and to be honest my vocal piano was out of tune (enough of the piano already)… So I started being treated at Tribeca Dental Clinique (I have no idea why they didn’t settle on clinic, it’s a bit like ‘Niteclub’ isn’t it?

If you have never experienced dental scaling and scraping, image someone stapling your lips back to your face and being pulled face down tied to a truck along a roughly asphalted road. It’s a bit like that.

The man who performed this act of torture, up there with water-boarding, really infuriated me the first time by absolutely ignoring any attempt to be social, instead waiting for the 24 litres of lidocaine to work whilst snapping on his latex gloves. I thought it was the most impolite of manners, and glared at him whilst he raped my teeth.

At the end of the experience, which lasted a good 4 days, when at the checkout – welcome to healthcare 2009 – I looked across to him and realised why he didn’t make friends with me. It’s that thing where hostages fall in love with their captors. If I started to like him, following his torturous acts, I might fall in love with him and when I fall in love with you, it’s like being hit by a sherman tank with no brakes. He was saving himself.

More importantly he was saving my teeth – and my pride. I’m delighted that I managed to see this through. My heart is lighter, my teeth are lighter and most telling – my wallet is floating.

179

I don’t want to harp on about it, but that’s my weight in pounds right now. I think that’s 3 Oprah’s (my definition of about 40 pounds, which she wheeled out on a trolley a few years ago, before the cheesecake struck back).

Having calculated my BMI on the NHI website I’m a 25. Which is .1 off of being ‘normal weight’. This is a massive achievement for me – and my insane Dr. who actually gave me a piece of medically sponsored paper with my weight this time last year – and a couple of weeks ago.

Clearly I have lost another 6 pounds since then. So the new me versus the old me is causing some concern to friends who I haven’t seen for some time. I do not have the AIDS, nor Cancer – what I do have is someone in my life who is passionate about food (we watch more food television than anyone I know, by rights we should be the size of houses).

And as you’ll you may see from my Facebook page I have gone to the extent of creating a ‘food porn’ folder – into which I place pictures of the stupendously tasty meals that we are concocting.

When I say ‘we’ I actually mean KK – he does the science part and I’m the big chopper. So much so that I gave my chopping finger a blister just last week. 

It’s been a tough couple of months (we will come onto that) and I think my body has retrenched into looking after itself – which is both welcomed and a welcome distraction.

I suppose what I’m saying is, when the chips are down – don’t eat them.

Nice work Hudson…

So much off the brief they’re in fucking Narnia.

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Full of it in the Fullerton.

The Fullerton Singapore seems to be the place du jour for most of my meetings this week. From regional CEO’s of PR agencies, to Regional CEO’s of Ad agencies. There’s a theme here. And it’s safe from the natives.

The Fullerton used to be Singapore’s post office and as Anne so correctly observed, given that Singapore is no bigger than Oprah Winfrey, who the fuck is sending all that mail? It’s a huge place. And like all good fruits and vegetables at Halloween it’s been hollowed out and made a laughing stock of.

But the birchermuesli is good and if you’ve been more than once they seem to know you (or just know you’ve got more money than sense).

I had said to my first breakfast meeting ‘I’ll be the English guy in the White Shirt with the Blue Tie looking Hot’ and on arrival realised that was the same as saying ‘I’ll be the inbred racist one who’s scared of darkies’ at a Sarah Palin party.

Anyway, after a brace of breakfasts I ended up meeting Anne and Lucy there for drinks. Anne is going through her fabulous dress period right now, and I strolled out onto the palladian balcony overlooking the grounds I was taken aback by her beauty and taste.

Well, actually I kind of stumbled out of the door tripped onto the terrace and laughed albeit before becoming even more red and blurting out ‘nice frock’ – hell the sentiment was there – and she did look good.

Once we’d all donated 2 pints of blood to the resident flying-micro-vampires, we settled down for a drink, or twelve.

Now, I’m a friend of the people – but at other times people can really piss me off. And apart from Anne, Lucy and I, everyone else in that bar was a dick. None more so than the untucked-pale-swearty-shirt-over-diesel-jeans-that-no-man-over-30-can-wear-with-bleached-hair-aussie who also stumbled out on to said terrace and began to shout to his so-called friends instructions on ordering more vittals and liquid refreshment. A class A cock and carbon copy from the book ‘Pricks you Should Avoid at All Costs in Singapore’. He probably knows Ben Langdon.

Anyway, Anne replied back to him some kind words, including ‘bonzer’ and ’shut up’ and he quickly retreated. Thank Christ.

4 hours later, and the win is flowing, the pizza is ordered and I eat an entire ramekin of so called chili powder (where DOES the work ramekin come from?)

We leave the Fullerton, full of fun, and I’m enchanted by the Chinese New Year lanterns in the lobby.

Getting into a ‘real estate’.

This is Anne’s place at night. Mount Sophia (that’s an address, not an instruction). It’s a wonderful and calm and gorgeous and if you’re wondering why the price of oil is going back up, Anne keeps it at a nippy -10 degrees.

Real estate here has taken a bit of a pummeling recently, as the world’s banks recalled their repugnant bloated bankers back to their morally bankrupt hometowns. No doubt that’s caused some panic here in this asian trading post (and left a lot of maids out of work) but I also sense a bit of relief and relaxation as the Rolex wearing cigar chewing insular money men catch their own avian flu – a virus with the symptoms of over-swollen stock value and nervous twitching in the Cathay lounge. It’s hard to feel sorry for the super-rich.

Anyhoo – I digress, what this means is property is a STEAL. No, literally. Everyone I’ve met is furious that when they signed up for their 7k per month 3 beds last year that they are now down to 4.5 and negotiable.

So I’ve clearly spent most waking hours looking and dreaming ‘what if’…  And I tell you, there are some amazing places to live here.

I think for me it can’t be too ang mo, it needs some semblance of culture and shouldn’t be excessive, I know dear reader – change is in the air lah?

The two extremes of cuisine.

So on arrival at Anne’s (I know I digress a bit) imagine my delight at seeing that not only is her place attached to a mall (Plaza Singapura) but within that mall there is both a ‘Markses’ and a Carrefour.

Now, apart from being reminded of some dorks at Euro RSCG whenever I hear Carrefour (which if pronounced correctly sounds like Pierre Lecosse clearing his throat) this Carrefour is a mecca to the homemaker shopper that I am. It took everything I had not to stock up on Glad wrap and plastic storage (did I tell you I’m watching Top Chef over here?) but what I did find was the precise exact same ramen that Ratchat had bought in K town a couple of weeks ago. So I promptly bought 6.

Now, the old me wouldn’t DREAM of having noodles, dried fish, salted eggs or other such delights pre lunch, but the NEW ME adores it. So this ramen was not only a connection home – it was an  ‘all-day  me moment’ as we’d say when we were all titting about for Nescafe.

At the other end of the scale KK had put into my little black book the address for a seafood restaurant called ‘No Signboard’. Apparently named because the founder, when he opened it, could not afford a signboard. Today, that no signboard signboard is laser cut from aluminium, much like the service skills of the authoritarian, panicked, yet simultaneously lazy waitstaff. Anne and I HAD to go. They do great buns (and trust me, I love a nice bun).

On arrival under the durian, we sat and gazed at the construction hell that is the new ‘integrated resort’ – that’s Singaporean for ‘casino’. A purgatory of a place that’s sure to bring in no end of trouble. Anyway, if they want it and can manage it (which I’m sure they can) there’s no doubt the economy will benefit.

The star of the show here is Chill Crab. A dish so Singaporean it will walk slowly through a mall in front of you – ensuring that no matter where you intend to walk, it’s always in the way… but unlike so called Singaporean Mall Dweebs, it’s delicious to look at – and to eat. Well, when I say to eat, you’ve kind of got to be into E.R. and Silent Witness to get through it. It can be quite daunting.

cf. Back of shot – friend buns. Cooked to order, little orgasms of dough deep fried and then dipped into the sauce. Delicious. I had one – as I am a grown up.

This dish doesn’t take any prisoners, you have to hammer, beat, tear and pull to get to the succulent meat within, but fuck me it’s worth it. It’s devine. We have one chilli crab and one white pepper crab – and I loved them both equally.

My only concern would be that it’s not THAT spicy. But the view was incredible, the buns were tight and Anne’s face lit up as I became her personal mortician and extracted the seafoody goodness from within.

I think it must be a mandatory stop for anyone into ripping crabs apart. Which should be everyone.

Bringing the Sling, back.

So there I was, at Vivo City (the largest mall in Singapore) ingratiating myself with the locals – in Starbucks and struggling to get online. It’s remarkable that to even use the ‘free’ internet in this wonderful town you have to give your passport number and cell phone. Finally, after a struggle and some calming words from KK I managed to connect.

So it was no real surprise when I started receiving promotional text messages from the state a little later on. Probably wasn’t a good idea to reply to them, following my two beers and glass (or two) of wine over dinner. Hey – ho. If I wake up rendered (as in illegally moved as opposed to fried until the fat drops off me) that will be why.

I had some time to kill, Anne, who appears to be single-handedly running one of the biggest clients in town, was ‘up against it’ so I was chilling with my students at Starbucks.

The dedication to learn here is nothing short of impressive, nor is the Singaporean students cunning/front in ensuring they can learn in comfort and with technology.

As I sat in the Bucks with my palm sizes Asus, 4 students came in, congregated around one table, pulled out an adaptor and plugged their four Dell laptops into the Starbucks grid (the blenders slowed a little bit and somewhere in someone’s HDB the lights went out). One of them proceeded to buy one short drink between the four, and as God is my witness, when I returned (after leaving) some 3 hours later – they were all still there.

Ratchat says often they will all go to the airport to take advantage of the free internet. Smart and economical.

So, anyway, there I was, homesick, lovesick and a littlen bored and suddenly it hit me – I had a Slingbox. Thanks to my lovely little sister (who is 24 and probably detests being called little) who had bought one as a total surprise for me.

So I logged in, and lo and behold in 3 minutes I was watching Top Chef. The only thing that was missing was the arctic New York weather, an airbus in the Hudson and the loving arms of KK around me. Heck. I’ll take what I can get here in the tropics. It was a little touch of home and love and it warmed me up no end.

We interrupt this bulletin..

To jump horribly to the ‘now’.  Anne, my host and friend is currently performing star-jumps to a collection of piano slapping and block-banging called ‘Hey Mickey’.

Tonight was a wonderful night at the Fullerton. When I say wonderful I mean, if you excuse the obese British men in cigars with women the size of Pepperami’s doting (or laughing with subtle sarcasm) at their every word.

It’s hard to try and write a travelogue when your friend is dancing, or indeed behaving, like she has a swarm of bees in her ver-jay-jay.

Happy New Year!

Sing-a-more!

Arrival, to Anne’s and a long day drinking and relaxing. Before bed at the late hour of 8pm.

Anne’s place is  stunning (or fantabulon as she would say) and she’s a woman who likes her AC on 24/7 so I was confident I wouldn’t spoil.

I put on KK’s shirt and snapped a pic to prove I was wearing it, like a comfort blanket and we headed out for amazing dimsum.

Then to Vivo Mall and a glass or two, then drunkenly spending about 50 dollars on 6 chocolates from a very expensive chocolatey store (Godiva) although I can’t remember eating them.

Then back to Anne’s a thimble of champagne and sleep.

The next morning imagine my horror as I awoke at 3pm. I was panicked. I had missed a whole day and no meetings. But worry not dear reader, I had forgotten to switch my watch from London time. PHEW.

It was time to make meetings. And as my recruiters and agents in NY had said – you need to see people and within 4 hours I had a brace of meetings set up.

It’s funny how when you put your mind to it things happen. People were amazingly receptive to seeing me (maybe I’m not bad at my job – bah!) but here there’s a sense of optimism that hasn’t been crushed by stupid Wall Street Bankers (I said Bankers) and people seem to want you to succeed-  like making a speech at a wedding (thank you Richard).

So off to bed with a Thai Curry (not in the bed, I mean for supper) and another night’s sleep punctuated only by waking at 3am for 20 minutes (which has continued to now).

Jonathan, the sausage jockey hits the Clubhouse.

So, connecting to a Singapore Airlines flight, I was a little confused whether I should go landside to check in (as I had online but didn’t get a boarding pass – tip – as soon as you’ve got a BP it’s hard to change seats). and use the Virgin Arrivals lounge – or if I could get a shower in the clubhouse. I went for the latter.

Checking in for SQ at Heathrow is not entirely pleasant. As a gold card VS man I hit the Suites check-in (I was on the ugliest yet most wonderful aircraft – the A380) and the brine faced woman told me that my status wasn’t in the booking. Now, as I’m slowly realising that materialism doesn’t really matter – I went easy on her. However, I wish I’d remembered to make her put priority tags on my bag; more on that later.

At the Nirvana that is the Clubhouse (that’s probably an offensive overstatement) I settled down to experience something I really haven’t found a comparison for in New York… it’s this;

And FMOSB it was proper ‘ansome. I loved the sausages most. Really moist, meaty and succulent. Close to the quality of a good Thai sausage, but not quite.

Then my evil plan was hatched. Because vinegar tits at check-in clearly thought I was trying to pull a fast one, I loosed my top, showed some cleavage and sauntered over to the Silver Kris lounge. The dragon on the desk was a love and I begged for an upper deck window seat (you see they have the little storage bins by the seat so more space and no need to get up)… she couldn’t confirm but I think my cleavage and gold card helped. I was assured of one pretty soon and proudly returned to the Clubhouse with my UPPER DECK stamped BP.

Boarding was a dream. Last row before last exit (so still in front of about 4 rows) but meant I could recline my seat through the journey. The 12 hour journey.

My seat mate arrived and promptly slept for the next 12 hours. She was 50ft high (so it seemed – odd that all my seat mates were very tall – or had I inexplicably shrunk in a hot-wash over night?).

Off we went. A take-off roll that felt like it took up half the 12 hours and we were airborn, oh not before being given hot cloth towels and menu’s and amenity kits. This aint no cheap meat flight.

Look, I won’t go on about the flight, suffice to say the last time I was on an SQ A380 I was up front, but there was nothing to complain about with this flight. Constantly brilliant service, great technology and I had 2 seasons of Family Guy on my ipod and Lunesta, so time flew (thankfully).

Arrival!

The long night and longer flight.

As per usual I had forgotten to eat for most of the day, so the trip from the apartment to the airport was puncuated by finding a dust covered piece of chewing gum, the sound of my stomach and the infurating yet constant dropping of calls on the journey to the airport (sorry Cindy!)…

But we arrived, checked-in and headed to the lounge – oh, after securing and exit row seat. Imagine my annoyance as after settling into the window exit row (which has a huge unnecessary obstruction in front – the exit door that is) and planning to shift to the aisle, Miss ‘Oh so smiley and helpful but probably wouldn’t be to you Mr. Gold Card Holder Who Never Get’s Good Service Ex-USA on Virgin’ decides to bring to Hagrid size, Little Britain characters up to sit in the other two seats.

After I calm myself down (KK said to ‘listen to my breathing’, imagine hearing Black Beauty after a canter across a beach type breathing was being heard) I realise that this is the beginning of a long journey and there’s no point being picky knickers.

Words simply cannot describe the discomfort I suffered in this Guantanemo inspired stress position – but it was the ONLY position as Andy and Lou next to me were convinced that I did actually want one of their belly’s exposed from their t-shirts and warmly pressing against my side like a damp human leech.

And the food. Holy moly. You’d need divine intervention to stomach it. I have never been served a meal that was entirely grey in my entire life. I’m not sure how Virgin are able to make their meals so unpalatable – there  must be an award they could win for it (I expect with Paul Charles as their head of PR it’s entirely possible they have).
I did sleep for a little while. There was nothing else to do really. Oh, and when I unfolded my tray table it was wet – and smelt like a student’s 4 days damp in the washing machine/dried too quickly on a flaky radiator’s cords.   Nice.

Arrival could not come soon enough – and with a  strong wind behind us (always preferable) we landed bang on time.

To the salvation that is the Virgin Clubhouse! Don’t spare the horses!

The Norma Desmond of Blogging.

OK. So I’m having a come-back. I can’t help it. So much is happening that I feel I need the comfort blanket of my blog. Someone to talk to who won’t answer back, and somewhere to capture what has become one of the most exhilarating weeks of my life.

Now, those of you who know (which seems to be an omni-present statement around this joint) will know that Barack and me have the same goals. No, not to shake hands with the world’s worst Bush (and that includes Naomi’s) next week, but for change. Change that I can believe in.

So here I am in Singapore. The EntrePot of the East, the diverse throbbing hub of the Orient. And my home for ten days.

It was late on Thursday night last week when Ratchat and I faced the fact that if there was to be change I needed to make it happen. And I needed to book a flight. Clearly the former was an easy decision, the latter led me to spending a good 18 hours online (expedia, expertflyer, ITA, Kayak and my other regular travel tools) to find the perfect flight.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered I could fly via London the next evening for about the same cost as the GDP of Zimbabwe (ie. not a lot) and  a ticket was booked.

So I’ll break the story down into days, I believe we call that ‘a diary’ of events and as I’m loathed to long stories, I’ll cut my career driven cake into easy to eat slices.

We’re off! 24 hours of travel beckons as I step gingerly (did I tell you I’m ginger) into my Dial 7 taxi on an ice-cold New York evening, Singapore bound!

Not much of a cliff hanger there – so here’s another one…