Secret Culture

Beware, all ye prepared for a blog full of action and excitement: today's is not the blog for you. We are in Singapore, after all... and this is not a post about sailing.  It is a slightly guilt ridden celebration of the culture that Singapore has been hiding from me (or, dare I say it, I haven't tried very hard to look for). I was going to write a mean blog making fun of cultural differences like this:

Wtf?

And this:

This is hilarious to me, and most Brits. Not a laughing matter in Singapore: read the entire poster carefully.

But that would have been the ignorant colonial in me, sulking at having been transferred from the Department of Awesome and Inspiring Teachers to the Branch of Purposeless Expat Dependants* so I am glad I didn't hit the negative 'publish' button, but instead ran away from Frenchie's cleaning lady, Susan, in a panic of awkwardness at having actually come face to face with the lady who is not too lazy to do aaaaaaaalll my ironing (and is not my long-suffering, saintly mother)... urgh... I despise myself...

ANYWAY.  What this fleeing achieved was a small mission to a café I have been trying to find since Tet, but which was too hip to be open on public holidays, which looks like this (see that Nutella tart, guys - this is what you miss out on when you have a job. Too bad...)

On the way there, though, which involved missing the bus stop and the prospect of a very sweaty walk, I made like a 'Frozen' princess and let it go, wandering instead round the back roads, caring not for the sweat attractively soaking through my underwear and pooling and rivuleting in all those places delicate women such as myself pretend don't exist.  And thank goodness that I did, for here, in the back streets of China Town, I discovered the inner Lifestyle Magazine photographer in myself via the delights of these beautiful shophouses. What follows are all the photos I took on my uber professional iPad camera, later touched up to look arty and authentic like those kids on the Instagram do... Enjoy!

Keats' Peranakan cousin was actually a mechanic. Probably lived longer and made fewer A Level students miserable...

I want to live here. And I want somebody, preferably a multimillion Euro company that probably owes something ethical to the world because of the extortionate price They charge for hand bags to pay for it.  I want Them to owe this ethical debt to me in the form of this house. I will be a happy recipient of Their displaced guilt. As long as I can live in this house. Do you think They can hear me?

This house. Look how gorgeous it is when you put the 'Fade' setting on it. 

THIS ONE. 

And then, when we need to upsize and be less young, trendy and professional and more serious and Victorian and adopt ragamuffin children off the street to continue to assuage Their guilt, this one, please. 

 

And of course, Emma's photo album is never complete without a picture of a bicycle leaning against a wall. Singapore was on form today...

Ah!  Thank you Singapore!

*NB Not all expat dependants are purposeless, but I have been very purposeless of late and the baking and talking to fish just isn't filling the void previously crammed to the brimming by students, lessons, service learning and assemblies... : (