2014 has been the year of planes. I’ve notched up more than a few stamps in that passport (or, at least I would have, if immigration would go back to stamping. What happened to the stamping? THE PEOPLE WANT STAMPS.) and countless miles in seat 7A – which yes, is my usual seat of choice and if you so very dare to even think about nabbing it the next time we fly together you can consider your BFF status revoked. REVOKED.
And just when I thought my (perfectly manicured) feet were ready to see out the final few weeks of 2014 in Melbourne town, wooosh. Duty calls, and me and my passport are jet-setting again. (He’s an e-passport actually, because I’m totes tech savvy like that, folks.)
Singapore awaits. The land of lavish shopping will welcome me and my credit card with welcome arms next week, and even though I’m technically, technically on a work
junket very important strategic trip, I fear that alone will not be a sufficient barrier to death by shopping bags. If I have even one spare gram of luggage allowance left for a run through duty free on the way home, I’ll be actually shocked.
When I think of Singapore, I think lavish. I think metallic, and bold, luxurious blues and purples, the exact same colours you’d expect to see if you held your gold spotted Kate Spade iPhone case up to a brilliant Melbourne sunset, and then ran it through an Instagram filter (X-Pro II is my pick, kids). It’s the city that never sleeps, and as I slide into the silly season, already exhausted, I’m worried how I’ll rally.
That’s exactly what the hotel pool bar is for, right?