Chrissy in the Monsoon

Really poured on the eve in two or three passages. These rains are something. Thunders too. A little while ago the Straits Times quoted someone or other, a meteorologist it may have been, who declared Singapore the thunder capital of the world. At the outdoor tables when the thunder-claps sound in the near distance no one bats an eye-lid. Not the slightest sign given. It is the rain that is most affecting. That has even the locals casting their eyes out into the thicket.
         In an effort to seize something of the Christmas festival a turn out to Raffles Place for licorice and chilli flavoured dark chocolate from Marks & Spencer seemed appropriate. Raffles Place is a large shopping complex that reflects the glory of the famous hotel on the opposite corner. On the first level of the tower not far from the escalator, Marks & Spencer was doing a fair trade. As usual, most of the shoppers were gathered in the confectionary department. In a small area at the bottom left corner, beside ladies lingerie, stood the racks of chocolate, biscuit and lollies. As far as the eye could see the remainder of the store comprised clothing apparel, middle of the road budget wear, floral prints and lace. At first acquaintance lingerie and sweets seemed an odd arrangement. 
         The crush in the plaza of the tower was not so bad. Not much more than brisk trade. The practiced shoppers had got in early. Bargain hunters naturally awaited the dawn after the manger dawn. (Like back home, the doors of the stores were due to open at five AM on Boxing Day—a de facto rather than designated holiday here.) British India had drawn some custom, when there had never been seen a soul there on previous visits. One could never pass through that first corridor off North Bridge without a side-long look at the shop-front. It remained a surprise here being reminded of British India. There were all manner of trading concerns in Singapore with strange names. British India should not have come as any kind of surprise. The difference was today on the return, nearly seven months into the stay in Singapore, the store would finally be entered. What better time than Christmas. 
         One or two of the other boutiques on the ground floor of Raffles Place had collected last minute shoppers. Both Raoul and Love & Co, opposite each other in the same first passage off North Bridge, again appeared vacant. In the case of fashion and jewelry respectively, it could be understood at Christmas. On the walk up and also the return, the cluster under the veranda beside the back entry of Raffles Hotel showed not a single customer: Elliott & Carmen, Irene’s Creation, the antique store beside the circular drive. (The smaller entry; the main entrance to Raffles Hotel is on the other side of the block, where you find the full, sweeping circular drive.) None of these stores held a single, solitary shopper. But then so far as that was concerned, on any other day it was the same. Christmas merely reinforced the impression. Volume was not what it was about in those shaded Raffles nooks. Understood. They may have possibly traded by appointment there. On this occasion in the walk along the Raffles veranda on North Bridge Road on Christmas Eve the thought arose whether there might be some kind of subtle subterfuge at work along this row. An idle thought in passing. Nonetheless there it was. It made one wonder. Are these stores there within the famous old hotel truly functional commercial enterprises, as they appear to the street? Do they indeed operate as shops at all, Elliot, Irene and the rest? An illustrious old boutique hotel such as this might easily create mock-up store-fronts in order to deliver a desired effect, add another layer to the aura of exclusivity and charm. Without Cartier and Rolex under those arches more than half the allure of old Sir Stamford's pile might be lost. Occasionally a figure flitted behind the windows. Everything suggested a real shop-keeper of that particular station—collars and ties, glasses on chains, shaped coiffures. The fixed, ordered wares in the interiors had the aspect of a stage-set, one where actors were redundant. The mind could play tricks on a journeyman, and the rain may have been a factor. Uncharitable thoughts at this time of year.
         A great deal of dark wood-paneling once inside the door at British India. The timber floor had not registered earlier. Inside the entry the incense and burning oil needed fording almost like a river. The staff had clearly overloaded trying to attract the attention of the passers-by out in the passage. In the men's shirts the pastels of the familiar kind seemed to be a colour representation of the rich perfume. The Indian lads in Geylang wore similar shades in the cheaper articles from the discount stores. Surprisingly the staff here held off. Possibly they could immediately detect a sight-seer. Within the ramparts there was generous space allotment. One was not crowed in British India like in Marks & Spencer. Linen fabrics an important line. Without too close an inspection, fairly casual most of the wear. In the open shelves opposite the men’s shirts the polos were sorted in fine gradations of colour. One had seen the range elsewhere in the city. Here there was the surprise of a new, entirely unexpected breast emblem. Instead of the Ferrari stallion, the Giordano prancing English lion up on its hind-quarters, the popular mounted polo player of an unknown brand, here in British India the ceremonial elephant in a range of livery was the specially chosen motif. Again, the surprise shouldn't have been. Prancing steed or lion—why not the more august pachyderm for those of another cast of mind? There were twenty different tones and combinations. Orchard Road and the arts precinct had chosen the same highly enameled wise old figure for the dominant motif in the street sculpture this year. No exaggeration, there must be in existence ten thousand snaps of children and family propped beside the dazzling baby elephants of the streets of Singapore in the run-down to Christmas alone. No more natural extension of the motif could be found than the one inside the doors of British India. It really did bring a smile seeing the racks. Touchingly innocent design development across the cultural spectrum, across the globe and all its people. A cow would have been inappropriate here. A profanity. The great dependable old thick-skinned Ellie a much more comforting, conciliatory totem; more Eastern. The visit to British India had been delayed too long. None of this clothing here had been sighted on the streets of the city.
         To draw out the Eve a little further, in order to linger a little longer, some refreshment at one of the bars or cafes seemed an idea. In was not due until four. Plenty of time to gather the Christmas omens. There was no point rushing back to Geylang. At Geylang there was no mark of the day of any kind. One or two churches had been found off in the side lorongs of Geylang too. Worshippers would wend their way quietly there from the HDB's. Six or seven per cent might be the statistics for Christians in Singapore. Perhaps a little above. Certainly nothing like enough to produce any kind of festive spirit, in Geylang especially. As one of the older men remarked the other day, Geylang was the real Chinatown in Singapore. The advertised one near the river was—like the large temple there—a tourist mock-up. 
         Tokyo Deli Cafe didn't offer allure this afternoon. On the entry French windows and tired looking salads displayed. Even though there was no thought of lunch, it had to be passed on this occasion. Another look at O'Gambino’s failed to inspire. Irish-Italo the sign said. This had to be a well-known chain, especially with that name. But in Singapore one couldn't be quite sure. From the print on the awning an old-time Chicago god-father looked down his nose. The advertising and the branding here kept one on one's toes. However the case may be, O'Gambino's seemed excessive for Chrissy eve. Some other time. A short way around the base of the tower found Double Bay boarded up. A couple of months ago a fair crowd had been drawn there, ex-pats and locals mixed. The high Oz $ possibly responsible for the closure. 
         By default more than anything, Brotzeit back a bit had to be it if it was going to be anywhere this Christmas. The tall ornamental fir stood directly in front. Brotzeit was a chain. One could pretty easily tell. Possibly not the only outlet in Singapore either. The fit-out could be plonked as required in any kind of space. It was no good being critical. Brotzeit had to do. Being picky would get you nowhere fast in Singapore. What did it matter? A few days before they had Beatles covers going, a fair John impersonator delivering a hits medley. It had been forgotten until the seat was taken. No cause for alarm. Today was another playlist. When the waiter opened the door to come out to the patio smoking area there was no John. Whatever they had on inside was muted, turned right down in honour of the season. Yet this was neither hymns nor carols. Didn't sound like. 
         Brotzeit wasn't so bad, looking out at the corner of Bras Basah and North Bridge Roads. Facing the street you didn't see the interior. Grey slate ran down to the traffic lights and seemed to continue upward diagonally opposite on the Carlton tower. On the near corner stood Chijmes, an impressive nineteenth century ecclesiastical cluster now devoted to boutique shops and bars. Unfortunately from North Bridge one faced the rear end. The cross on the chief building—it must have been the church—was retained at Chijmes. It might have been a special arrangement with Rome. (Could it be possible that on the Sunday the church function reverted, with a split of profits? The Chinese were nothing if not practical.) From across the way the Carlton appeared as offices. It must in fact be a three or four star hotel, with what looked like from the street an Arabian tailor off the foyer. High season in the luxury hotels here sets you back two or three thousand a night—plus for Emperor suites and the like. Having the old hotel across the road must have been a great boon for business at the Carlton, the shopping tower, the Chijmes bars and the church too. A better Chrissy than at this crossroads couldn't be found elsewhere in Singapore.
         The festooned holly through the gate on the side of Raffles was clearly visible. The trishaws waited under the alcoves. Around Raffles was the only place one saw the trishaws. Christmas Eve seemed an unlikely occasion for them. The chaps no doubt knew better. They seemed to be out in force. Perhaps there was an evening market, a little turn after supper through the lighted streets and down by the river. Three storeys high Raffles rose. Of course in former days it had been a landmark. Coming up from the river it would have stood as a beacon beside the spire of the church at Chijmes. (Pronounced chimes, deriving from the former Catholic Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus.) Raffles gleamed in what might have been the original white and forest green trim.
         The Chrissy tree on the corner this side was the largest in these parts, rising about twenty metres. It had been scaled to the Raffles upper storey and the spire. The faux-fir was precisely trimmed and shaped into a perfect elongated cone. Alternate red and gold mushroom-like discs ran in a couple of stripes across, with spherical gold baubles interspersed. The spots of colour compensated for what was a lackluster, brittle green. At the pinnacle a larger gold disc of the same form, only enlarged, created a crown. After the rain the colours gave a jewel-like sparkle.
         At the adjoining table at Brotzeit a little gathering of real Deutschers was found. Even before the big beefy Bavarian or Schwabian opposite the two ladies gave a salutation, the indication was strong. While speaking the man kept his Roman coin visage erect and raised. The identification was made spontaneously. This had to be a German chain. The beers were the usual mix, but in the case of wine German reds and whites predominated. A home away from home for the lucky Germans; their ringing tones and laughter as a consequence. It seemed a little touch of Christmas. The group were old friends. One of the women might have been the man's wife. It seemed the ladies politely took turns going for a cigarette. First one went off with a cigarette in hand ready for lighting, then the other. Their laughter came regularly. They had come down from one of the hotel towers in the neighbourhood between the rain storms. Perhaps the tree had drawn them and only afterward had they found the bar. A week or two ago a Christmas tree in the city had mysteriously gone up in flames. The brief mention and the lack of any follow-up in subsequent days suggested some kind of foul play. Drawing notice to the matter must have been judged unwise. There were numerous alerts here for anything suspicious, baggage and parcels, unusual behaviour. The race riots back in the early sixties had not been forgotten; after 9/11 some kind of planned attack on Changi airport had been nipped in the bud. Ten minutes away on the bus was Malaysia; Indonesia an hour on the ferry. When news of the arson was first heard naturally the tall cone at Raffles Place was recalled. Given the fact that the fire had occurred more than a fortnight out, there may have been no connection with Christmas, no racial or religious undertone. Knowing the promptness of the civic authorities, a search for the burnt tree was not entertained. Knowing the promptness of the authorities, it was highly likely the tree that had been destroyed, whether here at Raffles Place or elsewhere, would have been rapidly replaced. At any rate there was no need to spoil the scene beneath the tall, dressed fir out front of Brotzeit, the shoppers passing this way and that, Raffles one side and Chijmes the other, while the Deutschers chattered adjacent. The glasses on their table were full again. An impressive freedom the Deutschers displayed. They had bought their gifts on the way through customs perhaps. Comfortably they sat in the plush leather. A traditional dinner awaited them at their hotel. If the group was a little larger staff would put on traditional carols in German. With the relief from the rain this was a fine Christmas in shirt sleeves and blouses. No doubt many northerners came down to Singapore this time of year. Possibly the trio may have been able to fit together into one of the trishaws. A merry Christmas to them.
         As arranged, In arrived at the hotel shortly after 4. It was a good thing the Germans and the street Christmas had not detained longer. The usual Christmas Eve church attendance In had decided to forgo this year. Though a keen church-goer and regular in attendance, this Christmas Eve In was perfectly ready to make the concession. She had proposed the meeting herself. The formalities of church service seemed not especially important to In. Recently the pastor at her church had asked her to lead some hymn singing. It seemed ordinarily In hung back a little in church. At night she regularly prayed. When there was some trouble at work she cried at night and the prayers must have helped. Overall In managed her responsibilities well. How much of a concession was In's decision this Christmas Eve wasn't entirely clear.

         In's warmth and ardour rise rapidly. A hint of her passion might be guessed from her alertness and quick movement. Having herself slowed and restrained In easily accommodates; like a good, practiced dance partner, In adjusts and adapts. Words are entirely unnecessary, all is understood and accepted. In presses forcefully; she clings tight. Plunging deep from the outset, In never lets up. Nonetheless, Ind always waits on her lover too. Like her compatriots, Ind never disrobes herself. In will only oblige and aid the disrobing. Never a demand voiced or hinted. Delay, playfulness and withholding bring Ind delight, perhaps unexpectedly. At the moment when the union is about to be fulfilled In swells in her body and gives her tongue. Something like the bracing an athlete prepares prior to a critical response flexes In's small, neat frame and Indri flows out to meet her lover, expectant and keen.
         In the ascending progress Indri could not have anticipated the clamp on her tongue. Without warning suddenly, a hard, tight clenching and pinching. On the first occasion the surprise had clearly caught Ind completely unaware. Now it is possible Ind awaits the action. The trap sprung, In is held fast, hard and fast. In may intuit the move as a response to her own, move and counter. Then the second of In's shifts is more remarkable and stirring again than the first. All at once Indri is completely paralyzed, completely transfixed. One single pin has rendered the woman entirely and utterly motionless. In the first moments of this rigid arrest, this sudden turning to stone under the assault, In's vertiginous stillness leaves her lover groping after her, hurrying to keep up.

         The posture is maintained. It is as if In has arched her body to its limit, without any semblance of movement, without a muscle or tendon engaged. Indri doesn't breathe, doesn't make the slightest stir. Motionless and still, swelled and risen somehow imperceptibly, small, barely audible whimpers arrive instead of breaths. Slight gasps as from a fire. Gasps and little small moans. The first afternoon the effect was overwhelming. Subsequent afternoon and morning meetings attempted a recapture.
         The thought had been to have the windows in the room opened wide this Christmas Eve, the curtains drawn and the crashing rain brought indoors. Usually the wind drives the rain in under the narrow eaves of the hotel and the window has to be closed. For this monsoon Christmas it would be alright. The curtains would soon dry. In any case in the new year the hotel was due for renovation and refurbishment. Through the teeming afternoon rains in the city, watching the falls from one shelter and then another, the thought had returned to In's breathless whimpers, the high elevation of her frozen stance. The last window at the bed-head would be opened wide, the curtain only part closed to allow some of the drops on the pillows. If you didn’t have a hay-stack in a stable with the doors open in front this would suffice. Dark chilli chocolate and fruit on a platter, the old Malay crooners from the karaoke stand beside the supermarket providing carols.

Exercises - Putting on a Show

The USS Pearl Harbour — in town.
The USS New Orleans: docked.
The USS Reagan: present and accounted for.
(The last a nuclear powered super-carrier, mistakenly named by the informant The Megan. Understandable error.)
All three in at Changi Naval Base. Around 2500 men taking turns to visit the town. Precious carefree shore-leave here with not too much to worry about. Prices can be expected to be jacked to match the wallets: bars, hotels, the girls. A little bonanza for the local economy. As the informant this morning suggested, not the slightest whisper in the newspaper. Nada. It's not happening. Double page Rolex ad and Hublot (a competitor) weighing into the market with a page of its own. Reviews of the "good, bad and ugly" of the year from China in pics: disaster, pandas, protests &etc. Chrissy pics across the globe. Harkening back to Vietnam, the local prostitution industry caters to all tastes, temperaments and budgets. Five nation exercises, the cabbie reported. Were it not for the concerns in Syria, the evolving situation over there, the Kitty Hawk might have cut across from Diego Garcia to join the power-show, according to the man. That would make it the better part of five thousand yearning foot-loose souls needing welcome. Needing specifically transportation. (In fact informant a little out of date in the last regard: the Kitty was de-commissioned some years ago; projections for a museum in one of the U.S. ports.) The other day in the papers a surveillance pic of the first Chinese air-craft carrier riding blue waters; article listed the various national numbers: the U.S. so many, Russia, Great Britain, France. And now, worryingly, China joining the club. Putting on a big show here has to help negotiations over the troublesome terms of trade; coalition of democracies possibly able to press human rights for the Tibetans, Taiwanese, Uyghur and other minorities at the same time, work on pollution emissions—the whole she-bang. 

Devotee

Took quite some time to dredge up the greeting for the Malay waitress at the Saturday lunch-spot up near Aljunied this afternoon. Detained her at table a good stretch. Simply couldn't tumble to it. Since receiving it a week ago it kept slipping again and again. There hadn't been a single occasion where it was produced without consulting the little vocab list. And bringing out the booklet for reference hardly counted. What kind of greeting was possible like that?... It shouldn’t have been that difficult. Three syllables... What was it again?...
She waited....
— APA - Kha-bar!
Yes. Four syllables. Ah! It was worth it. The woman hadn't waited in vain. Big wide smiles. Like the poor everywhere, gaps in the teeth (no more than mid thirties). Quite unexpected from the masalleh.
A hard one that for some reason, something in the construction. And quite new. Up until it had been sourced, Salam was the usual greeting offered the Malays. Inappropriately it seemed.
In Malaysia the try-hard sensitive tourists might give it. Highly unlikely this lass had ever been served in this fashion from a fellow like that here. Not in Geylang.
Turned on her heels jauntily. But only driving off a short step or two. Paused. Paused a much briefer time than her interlocutor just prior. Swung half-back.
— Merri Chrismas!
That was good too. Well done. Properly chuffed she was now. The smile as large as the one before.
The Malay-Singaporean security guard downstairs translates it literally as: What news? "Khabar" can be seen on the local newspaper masthead, Mr. Batam pointed out. (Born post-war directly across the road in Malay kampung while it was a real kampung, the man's second wife lives on Batam, where he visits every weekend. Recently turned sixty-five, the second wife is a cool thirty years junior, same age as Mr. Batam's eldest son. The scribe is Mr. Bakso—following from his enthusiasm for the dish of that name taken at a street-stall in Nagoya City, Batam. Highly amusing to Mr. Batam.)
Full-house again at the hot-spot. Perhaps two dozen girls just on the corner either side and down the slope. More spectators, double the number. Shared table not unusual for lunch. Mostly the regular old-timers. One dollar coffee-O's and teas. Gone one. Couple of heavy showers through the morning. The lasses must have flooded out as soon as it cleared. The scene today no more bleak than any other. One or two of the girls perhaps showing it. Mostly they hold up somehow. Hang-time a little more evident today. It can't be helped, in the oldest profession as in any of the new. Two dozen at a pinch this afternoon as the hour wore one. Brolleys swinging more than bags today, jauntiness here and there. There must be thirty or forty of these middle-aged China-girls working just this immediate quarter here. Many of the faces familiar over the seven months. No drugs, no evidence of violence. The factors at work here, the whys and wherefores, well hidden. These are not trafficked women. Older and knowing. A number display mostly discreet, small tattoos. At a guess, average age thirty four.
A cheeky old bugger coming down the incline gets a half-hearted Howdydo? from one of the lasses. A matter of pure form. But it makes the fella circle to her at the last minute. The approach is close and near, as if he was about to whisper something to her. She herself doesn't know what's afoot. Up onto the footpath where she stands he rises. Knows her perhaps. The locals in the immediate neighbourhood are on good terms with the China-girls, the old men certainly. This fellow looks like he has come down from nearby. Lots of the men come from a distance to sit in the circle of the girls on the corner here. Merely to sit and watch them. The scribe does the same. Truly they present a fascinating spectacle.
Must be late sixties/turned seventy this old geezer, this cheeky old devil. The girl wears a low-cut dress, black satin down to a bit above her knees. Carefully measured. She wore a simple gold necklace. A close inspection of it for a bit of fun?
No. The old fella aims higher. Bending his head, he plants an appreciative kiss on the lady's bosom. Possibly not fully landing, it was hard to see. There. Done.
Gallantry of the highest form. The smile resulting was much broader on his dial than hers.
Hang about! Some consideration was due here. Howabout it? Come on.
The fella doesn't have much more than two brass razoos. She knows that. Doesn't try to work him, waste of time. Another bloke would drop her a tenner, just like that, show himself a sport.
Not a mean guy perhaps, but nothing to shake down. Almost certainly.
Small branded shopping bag like they all have he carries. This his wife has picked up somewhere. It was the first that came to hand leaving the house. Held very little. And he wouldn't keep his wallet in there.
What's he fishing for?
Up from the bottom of the bag it comes. A ripe, well-chosen orange. Many of the oranges here are tinged with yellow, shipped from China, California, South Africa and also the land of Oz. Only very careful handling and close inspection will get you edible fruit. Dry and desiccated most of them. Only in the past few days has the quality improved somewhat. A good one presented in the offering.
And you don't think she turned him down? Immediately she begins peeling. Why wouldn't she? Wasn't going to let it go to waste. Wasn't going to juggle it there at her post. Handbag small cutsie size. Wasn't going to save it for later. After lunch a little refreshment. Most of the rind comes off in a single piece. A near-by pal will take some. Some sweetness by the look of it. The old fella didn't wait around.



























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Orchard Road (Early Aquaintance)

As was the case this time last month, Kinokuniya has the following three titles headlining their Essential Reads shelf at Takashimaya in Orchard Road: The Secret Garden—the marvellous old classic for advanced twelve year olds (though what sense such a local youngster could make of a glorious English garden in the Tropics is difficult to fathom); Black Beauty, another great read for the same age-group and gender; and finally — left to right along the top shelf—Austen's Emma. 

Unchanged over fully five weeks now on this prominent display in the stand beside the register. 

Tried and true performers undoubtedly. They would not have held their place there otherwise. 

Made one wonder about the other stores in the chain — KL, the parent store in Tokyo, Sydney. The variance would be interesting. 

Had it not been so busy the visual merchandising manager might have been paged over the loudspeakers. How long exactly had these titles headlined on that shelf? What were sales numbers? They might have had profiles of buyers, age breakdowns &etc.

Could adults on this island here be reading a horsey love story? In Black Beauty was there a love greater than that for the horse? It was strange.

Queues at all registers and enquiry points even in the middle of the day. Some of this might have been the panic already. 

A middle-aged Spaniard seeking the New Yorker cartoon selection was met at one counter. The large format collected edition of the cartoons, it might have been, she had bought previously. This second was for a present. 

For the current Hemingway reading the chance encounter was perfect for background. Yes, the bulls are wounded by the mounted picadors with their long lances before the torero takes over. Occasionally the horses that carry these mounts are impaled by the bulls. This is what the novices in The Sun Also Rises are warned against watching — the killing of the bulls is the lesser part of the gore, according to Jake, Hemingway's narrator. 

The Spaniard had attended only one bull-fight and would not attend another, she said. In her parts, the civilised north—where the runs in Pamplona continue—the fights are now banned, the lady confirming recent newspaper reports.

Takashimaya is one corner back from the dead centre of the prime retail hub here in Singapore. The Ion building on the corner of Orchard and Patterson clearly marks the bulls-eye. The cross-road at this chief junction on Orchard is Scott one side and Patterson the other—a common, confusing discontinuity in this city. 

The width of the boulevards on the corner, the grandiose, gargantuan entries to the towers, the paving with its public art (highly enamelled baby elephants in the main currently) proclaim the fact for any first-timer: top-end A list shopping.

Forget Collins, Bourke and George Streets back home. Orchard packs a far bigger punch. This is big-purse platinum consumer category. State of the art. Thirty metre trees along the pavement soften the streetscape. Giant screens wash shoppers in colour and sound. Jewel-box store windows one side and traditional street vendors selling from their tri-shaws the other. Times Square could not offer more. Not the Champs Elysee, Dubai or Shanghai. Orchard Road was in a class of its own.

The sci-fi entry portico at Ion stands four storeys high, aluminium limb-like tubes carrying a canopy inspired by animation jungle scenes. It would not be easy to catch the effect in a photograph. To get the scale and form the rabbit ears pose at ground level would be completely lost. There were many sizing up the prospect this afternoon. 

Crowds were not especially large. With only a couple of weeks remaining to Chrissy—two weekends only—there ought to have been more foot traffic. The retailers here labour under the double disadvantage of the over-powering heat two or three months of the year, and then the rains for a similar term. 

A number of early sales were a surprise. Giordano had heaped tees on a front table for $10. Years ago there were news reports of Singaporeans flying to Melbourne for the post-X sales. At that point possibly Orchard was less well developed. At present one would be mad to swap Orchard for any of our shopping precincts.

Around eighty per cent Chinese here; Malay about ten and Indian something less. You would not know it navigating Orchard on Google maps. Nor from the display shelves at Kinokuniya Singapore. Book titles and street names fit the advertising throughout the city: where fashion, style and sophistication are projected, invariably Western faces are shown—a touch of indefinable Eurasian if at all.

The Kinokuniya third floor is shared with Cartier one side and Mont Blanc the other. Around on the other side of the escalators The HourGlass display couldn't be spied from a distance. (Out on the street later the mystery was solved eventually — "Contemporary Horological Art", in one of the attached Rolex hoardings.) Prada and LV maintain street presence on ground at Ion. 

Crossing from there to Marks & Spencer on the other side of Scott Road pedestrians are funnelled by escalator down an aircon underground corridor, again lined with by all manner of candy-coloured stores. Through the heat of June-July, and the rain of the current period, the capture must be complete.

A great deal of construction around Isetan tower was odd to find so late in the season. The works underway did not seem to be connected with the recent flooding on the street reported in the newspapers. Forecourt re-decoration possibly. Entry, stamp of address and sense of arrival clearly recognised on this block particularly. The work-crews at Isetan must have been going 24/7, judging by the state of collapse of three or four of the men within the pavement cubicle that had been commandeered out front. Going past one of the lads was adjusting some improvised cushioning on the bottom rung of the ladder where he was trying to rest his head. A sheet of plastic lay beneath the lads, all bright red company polos. Busy, car-honking Orchard Road and the endless stream of shoppers failed to disturb.

Tang's Christmas Store stood opposite the little booth where the men were getting some shut-eye. Moss-green pagoda roofs were a feature, added later possibly. The tower was set back a good way from the street. It was only from the Scott corner that the full pagoda effect higher up came into view. A wink of an eye and a shopper was returned to tenth century heartland China in the middle of one of the celebrated dynasties. From the seat beside the booth where the men were dreaming the effect was less grand. Still the brutalist concrete finish of the facade on that side gave a little something. 

A lion stood beside the Clinique entrance. On the other side fairy trees and lights carrying the notice TANG's Elephant Parade GALLERY. It no doubt  brightened for the after-work shoppers. Mounted steel struts carried all sorts of other decorations of the season, one literary citation on a curling parchment scroll among them.

He Has Made

Everything Beautiful

In Its Time

Dull lemon yellow. Parchment proper would have been ineffective on cement panels. 

The source was the surprise. All the grim, ornery matter from memory in that book, and yet there it was undeniably referenced in two foot font on the Tang building on Orchard Road: Ecclesiastes (3:11). 

The Chinese could put one to school for bible study here. Impressive church spires abound. Commentaries on the Bible frequently found in hand. On the buses gold and silver crosses common over décolletages.

After so much trooping around and gawking a cafe seemed a good idea. Beside the Marks & Spencer outlet on the other side of Scott Road, opposite Ion, a small gathering of tables and wicker chairs. No damage possible with a single cafe. It bought you entre to the most salubrious establishment. 

The intention had been to catch breath; a short sit and survey from another angle. Then the apple from the bag before lunch back at the Uncle's stall opposite Bugis. That too was a fine look-out and Uncle an out and out card. The poor man was still trying to get the number of the "China-girl" luncheon companion of a few months back. The other day he was offering marriage. 

During the cafe however skies opening, bringing on an early lunch. Prawn, roasted tatters, light mayo salad as expected. It said clearly on the menu: thirteen dollars odd. Fair enough. No complaints on Orchard Road. Being able to share in all the Christmas cheer with that entree fair bargain—raining cats and dogs though it was on that exposed veranda. 

Yet the bill when arrived gave you a decent sock between the eyes. Twenty three dollars plus. 

That meant the cafe was a full red tenner. 

Starbucks was $5.50 here. $4.50 the library cafe. Nothing to choose between them. 

Slightly better at The Coffee Connoisseur on Victoria Street might have fetched seven or seven fifty. In the plush cafes of Tanjong Pagar, the constituency of the former PM, current Senior Mentor Lee Kwan Yew, you paid $5.50 sitting on reupholstered retro chairs amidst fine lounge music. Another order entirely Orchard Road, especially on the Scott corner. Service charge the possible factor, or GST. How to enquire?

Purchased at Kinokuniya, This Way For the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen, Tadeusz Borowski. Another Auschwitz survivor who subsequently suicided (turning on the oven in this case). Challenging your imaginative capacities from the first pages.

NB. Confirmation today in the S. T. Orchard Road is the Premier shopping strip on the globe. Announced by the Paris-based Presence Mystery Shopping—400 retail outlets in 30 cities carefully assessed. This was no slap-dash, shady on-line survey, clearly.

George Street, Sydney No. 6

The Ginza, Tokyo 9

Bond Street, London lamentable 10

Wosre still, Champs Elysees failed to figure in the top bracket. No longer able to rest on its laurels.

Despite a less than exhaustive investigation, your scribe was right on the money a month ago.

Come see the famed street before it sinks. (Further flooding recently and much discussion on how to rescue the situation, whether by developing a bigger series of run-off ponds, deepening the relevant canal; &etc.)

The Straits Times, p. B8 Tue. 10 Jan 2012

Van Gogh in the Starless City

Finding an angle at which to view Van Gogh's Starry Night here yesterday presented a challenge. Partly the lighting may have been responsible, the spot overhead trained on it a few amps too bright. The tessellated layers of paint for the water surface that carried the light thrown from the houses around the shore of the bay stabbed at the eyes. 

Receiving that wide arena of night was not easy. Getting to it with all the cameras trained was very difficult. 

On the return for a second viewing after a break a tall chap tried a dozen shots from close in front. Prior to that he had given it some distance. (One poor patron hadn't given himself enough time for so many pictures; he raced around for a click of each, and one of the accompanying note. At home when he had more time he was going to look properly.)

            The cobalt blue of Starry Night, the entirety of sky and water drawn together, presented an action spectacular of the inner mind.

            Again there was a single star adrift of the moon here last night. All the art patrons at the National Museum of Singapore would have traveled overseas. But on their travels had they ever been outside a large city? Had they ever seen the night sky strewn with stars? 

Perhaps on their nature excursions: the penguins at Phillip Island back home, a safari zoo outside city limits. (In order to compare with their own, which in the advertising was judged world best.) Climbing or skiing alps.

Could the memories help with Starry Night? 

Everything was odd in the transposition here of language, art, culture, advertising, architecture, colonial era justice system and governance. You name it.

            A Winslow Homer night (Summer Night) was placed on the wall adjacent to the Van Gogh—the sole Van Gogh in the show. (In the shop attached to the museum they sold many other repro postcards.) The wrapped dancers in the foreground of Homer’s painting didn't make it a less daunting and forbidding nightscape. Van G.’s night on the other hand was exhilarating.

            A feather-light diaphanous azure blue worn by Degas' dancers was perfect for supple, youthful bodies that rose from the boards into the realm of air. A marvellous frieze of a painting in its graded planes from the figures on the stairs to those within the room and by the windows. You couldn't help mimicking the postures, shifting the weight with the figures before you. A beautiful, not large painting.

            Monet's wife Camille, first healthy and full in figure reclined on a sofa in a moment of abstraction (Meditation); then on the opposite wall painted a few short years afterward, a woman in mountainous shrouds buried in a hollow and half-way to formless oblivion already. 

A striking pairing. 

            Seurat's dying aunt—the note said she was dead already—hung nearby. The old woman's head lay heavily on the heaped pillows, the weight off her shoulder given from the angle of the bed-side vigil. Again the whorled lines of the pencil suggested rapid loss of form and identity. 

Frightening to behold both of these paintings. At no stage did the cameras get in the way in that dark corner.

            Other signature Monet water scenes were included, Cezanne's rocks and card-players, Renoir's pink chestnut trees that shimmered before the eyes. First inside the entrance, the dreamy, sensuous Ingres woman transformed by her state was a wonderful, inviting opening to the survey.

            Impressionists from the Musee D'Orsay. $11 — with the sweetest, most attentive, charming and warm attendants, turnstile men and baggage ladies imaginable. Close cousins of the other delightful people at the hawker stalls and elsewhere in this city-country. 

The tour guides’ Dutch and French it sounded like—cooler northern climate voices and visages—seemed to have nothing in common with the spirit of the artists.