Shut up about Barclay Perkins: Singapore simmering

Monday, 11 August 2025

Singapore simmering

I don't rise that early. I'm feeling much better after a good, long kip. Andrew is going for an even longer kip. One which may last until dusk unless I intervene.

Not much planned today. Around one we walk down the road to the 7 Eleven for some more suff. It’s very hot. Which is sort of to be expected when you’re this close to the equator.

We’re an interesting neighbourhood, built in the 1930s. With an art deco vibe. Not necessarily something you associate with the tropics. The buildings look a bit like a pre-war London blocks of council flats.

A four-storey 1930s block of flats with curved brick balconies and white plastered walls. Flowers and small tropical trees grow in a thin strip of garden. There are two parked cars, one silver and one pale blue. How many words you need to describe a pretty mundane fucking scene. If it were my paiting I'd call it "Block of flats with parked cars".

After chilling in our room for a little, we head for the hawker market again. It's pretty interesting. Mostly Chinese food. But also random European stuff, like Italian. And any Asian cuisine you can think of. And a few more than that. Quite a few more.

There are only fans and soon Andrew is overheating So much so, that we have to go in search of air-conditioning. He’s doing his turning grey, sweating and looking ready to collapse thing.

We dive into Hello Arigato, a coffeeshop, over the road to cool down. And I drink coffee. Ironically. Andrew has a beer. A real shocker, that.

A cup of espresso in the foreground with a bottle of beer and a glass of beer in the background. There's also a large bottle of water and two small glassses in the background. "Espresso with beer and wate" would be my painting name.

"How could people live here without air-conditioning?" Andrew asks.

“No idea. I suppose those who couldn’t just died.”

“That’s a cheery thought.”

“I’m a cheery sort of bloke.”

“Self-delusion is a terrible thing, Dad.”

When we've finished our drinks, the place is starting to close. We return to the market for some takeaway food. For me, at least. Andrew isn’t hungry.

I go to the place with the enticing roast meat smells and the long queue. Roast pork and roast duck with rice. It's hideously expensive: $6.50. Which is a bit over 4 euros.

Inside a hawker market. A queue of people leads up to a hawker stall, at the front of which various roast meays hang from hooks. In a neihbouring stall, someone appears to be cooking. Or cleaning, could be that, too. Trays of eggs stand three deep on a stainless steel shelf. In the foreground an old couple eat with chopsticks, two plastic bags on the table. I'm sticking to photos of my beer in future. "Queue for Chinese roast meat" is my painting name for this one.

“The robbing bastards.”

“I know, Dad. How dare they charge those prices.”

“The pricing here is weird.”

"They must have a high tax on alcohol."

“They must. I can't think of any other explanation.”

I eat back in our room. My food is dead good. The roasty Chinese stuff I love. Crunchy and fatty.

“Do you want to try some?”

“No.”

This is an easy one. Grease-proof paper, topped with white rice. On top of that slices of roast duck and roast pork. A brown sauce has soaked into the top layer of rice. Looks - and was - dead yummy. Painting name: "Chinese roast meat with rice".

Andrew isn't hungry. He must be getting all his calories from the rum.

“Dad, did you know this also operates as a love hotel?”

“Really?”

“I heard someone asking at reception how much it costs for three hours.”

“They must have needed it for a short kip. For a love stay you’d need twenty minutes, tops. Thirty if you have a shower before and after.”

“Daad.”

“What?”

“I don’t need to know that.”

It’s always fun embarrassing your kids.

What to do this evening? It's back to the Magpie. Where we sit at the bar. Rye whiskey for me. Crafty Lager for Andrew.

They're playing reggae on vinyl records. Which is pretty cool. It goes well with the heat. A waitress recognises us from yesterday and says hello. Which is nice.

We go crazy and have three rounds. 120 Singapore dollars. Or 80 euros. Fuck me, that's expensive. Even by Amsterdam standards. I hope Australia is going to be cheaper.

We’ve still duty free, luckily. Already paid for. Accompanied by some YouTube. Such cultured bastards, we are.

We don't stay up too late. Got a plane to catch tomorrow. And a wallet of limited capacity,

Hello Arigato Tiong Bahru
58 Seng Poh Rd,
#01-15,
Singapore 160058.
http://helloarigato.com/