Being in a room you haven’t paid for would seem to be the best way to travel and the more luxurious the upgrade the better. Yet, at least for me, it intensifies the conscientiousness and guilt. It just seems to make me very serious. Why am I here and what am I supposed to say? Do I, should I, say it? How objective, how critical should I be given I’m only here because they’ve paid for me to come. Of course, journalists are supposed to take it all in their stride, not be influenced by anything. But that’s rubbish and everyone knows it.

The view is nothing to speak of, a twin curtain contraption covers the floor to ceiling view of the building across the street. There’s a black out curtain to avoid all light and a gauze haze curtain to avoid the view. Whenever I enter the room I switch off the air con. It’s too cold. I open the curtains, I want to see outside. I want the tropical humidity to seep in, even if the windows themselves can’t open. The sounds and smells can then rise up from the street of frying and vegetables in bins, calls, shouts and horns and clatter.

There are plants dying on the building opposite just above my high level from my room, for some inexplicable reason they’ve been planted in pots four storeys in the sky, propped within a narrow balcony. They’re large plants, potentially trees and desperate for more water than the rain seems able to provide or their pots are able to absorb. They’re left deficit and struggling, plants trying to grow for too long too far from the earth.

Within the room, however, there are amusements and distractions. A very large TV with very many TV stations sits on a low bench thus creating a separation in the open space between the lounge area and the bedroom area. There’s a gym down the hall where people sweat for pleasure and on the top floor an infinitiy pool.

To the side of the lounge however, near the door is where I spend most of my time, at the desk with the plugs offering international power choices. There’s a bar fridge filled with items I dare not touch, some crockery in cupboards, and the Nescafe machine that it has taken me two days to decipher. A selection of very nice teas has been my beverage of choice though, particularly the Chamomile at 3am when I’m stilling staring at my laptop. From the wide desk, I stare across the empty room out the window, feel the patter of day and night. Even when it’s 4am I refuse to dampen this places daily cycle with my own screwed up one.

The international business travellers privilege is to turn off the solar rhythm others abide by and follow their own internal tick, should they be able to find it. But I want to be in this place, even if all I seem to experience is within walls that could be anywhere. This is Singapore, it could be anywhere but it’s not.

It is comfortable, familiar and foreign in comfortable balance and I only have four days.