Flippin' my hair, workin' my hooves

Spent all of yesterday going from door to door of Chinatown, seeing if the hotels and restaurants recommended in the guide were still open- the less glamorous bit of guidebook updating. This is especially true when it’s 33 degrees and humid betty swollocks outside. I spent the entire day covered in a fine layer of sweat, particularly convincing on the upper lip, and a sheen of grime that reliably came off with a tissue every hour or so.

So it was with some trepidation that I entered a rather cool little boutique shop called Stevie’s General Store (after Stevie Nicks, also a good sign no?) that wouldn't be out of place in London’s East End Broadway market or Berlin’s Kreuzberg. The tiny equivalent of those areas here is called Ann Siang and Club road- although I’m told they’re becoming increasingly bourgeois. Nevertheless, a Morrissey and Johnny Marr T-shirt hanging outside the shop steeled me, I took it as a good sign, Inshallah.

The girl’s running the place were dressed in that insouciantly brilliant way that Asians have, where everything just hangs right with minimal effort. A simple grey vest and denim shorts with white high tops looked darn right amazing; her business partner with her cropped hair and black wide rimmed glasses and an oversized Breton T-shirt and long denim shorts also looked the business. Total Asian bebs.com. But these cats weren’t too-cool-for-school. They were really helpful, telling me all the hot spots in the city to go out and even going into the back to show me a special vintage import Japanese dress…It was love at first sight; a sleeveless maroon crepe number with lace overlay and sparse flower print, mandarin collar, cinched waist and below the knee length… So, despite the impracticality of such a thing, and dreaming of the Orient Express, I bought it. I would upload a pic, but I can’t really take one of myself wearing it.

I saw some pretty average hotels yesterday, not in a bad way, just in the sense that I’ve seen a few and they were, on the whole, nothing special. But there were two notable exceptions: The Hotel 1929 and the New Majestic Hotel. The latter was just unbelievable, each of its 30 rooms has been designed by a different emerging local designer, resulting in an incredible mish-mash of differently themed rooms; the David Lachappelle-esque ‘pussy parlour’ with a blinking, pink neon light of a topless woman inside and a mirrored ceiling (“This is one of our more popular rooms”; a white minimalist room with an outdoor bath surrounded by bamboo fencing; a suspended bed (Don’t come a-knockin’!) and my favourite one, which had a mural on one wall covered in owls and trees. Snarf!

And so today I’ve spent my morning in my gorgeous hotel room at the Fairmont (sister hotel to the Savoy in London) cross referencing maps, Time Out Singapore and the bible of cool, Wallpaper, to leave no stone unturned in the hunt for the best the city has to offer. I thought I’d find that part unbearably laborious, but I actually really love it. I keep thinking about the people who will buy the guidebook, and have a really great experience in the city thanks to my help.

With that in mind I’d better get back to it…

"Welcome to Singapore- don't worry your eyes are...fine"

As I stepped bleary eyed and jet lagged into the arrivals hall of Singapore airport I was met by a quizzical face with an expression that read ‘In-the-name of-all that-is-Holy-say–yes, accompanied by the words, “Are you wearing contacts?” “Uhhm, no” came my hesitant response. “Oh…I wouldn’t want to meet you down a dark alley hey? Haha!” my driver fired back nonchalantly.

Not quite the reaction I was hoping for as the new updater of the Rough Guide to Singapore. I had concocted imaginings of high fives all round, knowing winks, ubiquitous tales of rock star Westerner in Eastern land. But no. I was immediately cast as an extra from Underworld (“It’s a great film! It made me want fangs too!” came the next backhander, pouring lemon juice into my seeping pridal wound).

Still, let's say I was too tired to really care after 24 hours of travel (courtesy of Emirates-highly recommended). And so we began the drive into Singapore, passing sunny, palm tree-lined roads that 'double up as an extra runway in times of need', my driver proudly explained as I frantically checked the rear view mirror for further signs of devil incarnation.

After a catnap and shower at my hostel The Inn Crowd it was time to hit the streets with my driver who took me to my first Hawker centre, located on Whampoa Drive- a residential area away from the madding crowds. Hawker centres are open air food courts where you can get freshly made food that reveals the eclectic mix of Singapore’s diverse population- 78% Chinese, 14% Malay, 7.5% Indian for all you factoid fanciers. Dotted all over the city, they’re a must-see. You could eat something different every day of the week for several months such is the diversity. I opted for Fish bee hoon, a kind of broth with deep fried red snapper fish, rice vermicelli noodles, Chinese spinach, seaweed, evaporated milk, all flavoured with teebor – a dried salted fish that adds flavour. Really, really good I drank that milkshake up like a good ‘un. I washed it down with a glass of sugar cane juice and a raw food salad that’s popular here called Rojak- it consists of pineapple, turnip, cucumber, bean sprouts, lettuce, celantro (Chinese parsley), dough balls, taupok (dried bean curd) all smothered in a sticky peanut sauce. Chilli padis are optional but I was already wiping the sweat from my brow so opted against.

After a few cocky Ts at a beachside bar jetlag meant I had to call it a night, but not before rambling incoherently about the state of the world’s finances to my guide, who visibly wilted by the second. Brilliant.