There was that first day of arrival, where, head swimming with international travel and lack of sleep, I lay in bed and, full of confidence, (delusion? Confidence? Sometimes I get mixed up), made a tea date for later in the afternoon. “It’s ten now, right?” I’d said, and I wasn’t even slurring my words yet. “So if we meet at three that’ll give me plenty of time to take a little nap.”

Who knows if the alarm hadn’t gone off, or it had and I’d just folded it into my dreams—but all of a sudden I was rolling over and, reaching for my mobile still showing the English hour, trying to calculate local time. “Seven-twenty-one, so that’s eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two, 3:21.” I said, aloud, and using fingers. Then: “No, wait, wrong, surely. Seven-twenty-two, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two, 3:20—shit.” And then it was time to get on the phone with Tym and apologise furiously—well, as furiously as groggy would let me.

We met, finally, an hour later than planned, and proceeded to eat as much cake as was necessary to reach satisfaction. That number is not so high as it could have been, really, for try number one was the key lime pie (not technically a cake), and try number two, which was all it took, was the chocolate rum raisin. This second one was surprising because there were bits that were chocolatey and bits that were rum-raisiny, but not really bits that were both.

I’d been wanting to take the girl out anyway to celebrate her quitting of job, but then my extreme lateness overruled, and I had to reach for the check, mumbling, “This is the Treat of Shame.”

So. There was that day—and that night, where I fell asleep in my chair then fell asleep on top of the covers before giving up entirely and getting into bed proper—

there was that day, and it seems so long ago now; but ask me what I’ve been up to and Lord help us all if I can tell you. There’ve been martinis and steak sandwiches at Morton’s, that much I remember—something like eleven lychee martinis at the table, and a mint julep for me. There was a late-night dinner at Makansutra, all of us picking the oysters out of the oyster omelette. “I hope no one notices,” I’d said, as my chopsticks did their trick, “that I’m picking the oysters out of this oh lua.” “Sorry,” I’d said, but I wasn’t, not really. And then the confessions came chiming in, and we sat around wondering who it is who does eat the oysters. There was a traipse ’round Little India after yellow rice and banana-leaf curries, a tour of the glory of Mustafa’s food department (ten-cent chocolate wafers! bags of murukku! fake Kinder eggs! Durian brand tea dust!), and then sweet iced Milos outdoors under the whirring fans while the monsoon rain made it all new again.

Yesterday morning, quite early, there was my own private radio show; then last night, very late, there was the Haig Road apartment and its tiled floor in a modular sixties pattern, blue, blue, white; and a bag of Ruffles passed around, with “The Forty-Year-Old Virgin” projected on the roll-up, roll-down photo-shoot backdrop. There was the cab ride home closing in on three in the morning, and creeping into the house like I have mice for feet.

I don’t know what clock I’m operating on these days—take your pick from Singapore, London or Paris—but I was in my pyjamas till five this afternoon, and, I tell you, it felt good the WHOLE time.