Probably the best airport in the world

The prospect of 7 hours at an airport is, at the best of times, grim. It becomes more so when you have already flown, and that flight was with Asia’s bright and cheap budget airline – who decided to make up time by flying not round, but directly through a thunderstorm. Oh joy. People actually screaming because the bump was so big. Joe even raised his eyebrows!!! I was repeating the mantra “its just a cloud. Its just a cloud.”

On arrival back at JB a surly woman sold us a taxi ride straight to Changi Airport with a scowl and a 160 RM price tag (ok … so that’s less than £40 for five for over an hour’s ride but still). We piled into the cab and the kids launched into raucous renditions of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang songs and dialogue. The cab driver joined in with a rather strange accompaniment, but a big smile: he burped loud and fruity belches every 3 to 4 seconds. For over an hour. One’s reaction to such a display of bodily function goes through an interesting developmental phase. You start off wondering whether its some sort of engine noise. Then you come to the sad realisation that it is, in fact and indeed, the driver. Then there is the disbelief stage, where you can’t believe this is real. Then there is the wonderment. How can one alimentary canal hold so much gas without exploding from the poor man’s body altogether? Then there is the disgust. Then there is the inane giggling, which Joe instigated. All through, I was talking VERY VERY LOUDLY so the kids wouldn’t notice, as if they did, I knew one would pipe up entirely audibly “Mum! Why does that man keep burping?”

But you forgive anything for a man who can drive the Causeway like Jenson Butten, knows all the tricks for getting the best immigration lane, and get us through both sets of customs without an inspection (the cab driver next to us was standing, bemused, as his customers were forced to unpack the contents of all their bags). We tipped him big, for the speed, the ease and the sheer entertainment value.

Joe is, by nature, a very big tipper. And he proved that it does reap its rewards last night. We arrived for the second time at KK’s Hotel Promenade, where two lovely large superior rooms that would be at least £100 EACH in the UK (and probably then some) set you back ooooh, £70 all in. He had tipped everybody in sight last time: “Excuse me doorman, thank you so much for opening the door so nicely, have what is probably a day’s wages” and so on. But maybe it does pay. The check in clerk disappeared for a moment, and then came back with a big grin on his face. “I have some good news” he says. “We have no adjoining standard rooms. We are therefore upgrading you to the Presidential Suite.” Now, the kids would argue that the reason we got it was because they sang “Oh the posh, posh travelling life” from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in the cab to the hotel. But I have a sneaking suspicion Joe’s theory is more accurate. We spent a night of utter indulgence basking in the luxury of our three bathroomed, marble and art festooned glory hole, washing (and drinking) the jungle away for good. Yes, we also celebrated being in a Western style business hotel that served WINE. Australian wine. Australian Chardonnay! Oh … it was utter heaven. Tiger Beer has its uses, but there simply is no comparison. The kids spent the evening gorging at the buffet, running around in the warm rain by the pool, dancing in the bar and looking pleased as Cheshire Cats in the hotel bathrobes, opening every complimentary item in the bathroom (Rowan does look divine in a plastic hairnet) and plaguing us to let them raid the minibar.

Somehow I have digressed entirely, but when I veered off course chronologically, we were tipping the windy cabby outside Changi Airport, with a depressing 7 hours to go before our flight was scheduled to leave. But Singapore has got it right. I keep meaning to write an open letter to airport authorities of the world castigating them for their crap design, lack of facilities and generally bouncing-off-the-walls boredom inducing nature of their buildings. You want to keep three kids happy for several hours? Ever considered a play area, mmm? Doesn’t take Einstein. Why will you serve alcohol to people at 7am and keep doing so until they are a positive danger to themselves, let alone to the poor air crew and fellow passengers, but not allow anyone to smoke a totally legal and non-hallucinogenic drug such as nicotine anywhere past immigration, eh? Why do you SELL cigarettes by the packet as well as duty free, and not allow already stressed, tired and often nervous people to SMOKE EM anywhere????!

Well, Singapore Changi has evidently listened to souls like me. It has restaurants coming out of its ears. It has comfy leather sofas. It has space. It has a free TV showing kids programmes surrounded by soft cushions! Its has … now wait for it … a smoking pub which shows the large screen sports channel, and on said channel – oh gods of serendipity I adore and worship you – the entire unexpurgated 80 minutes of Wales beating England in the final match of the 2006/7 6 Nations. There followed hallelujahs and over an hour of glorious viewing whilst enjoying a hair of the dog and a cigarette. Ah me, this is the posh travelling life. To have known the score for several days but not seen the match had been torture, and now we were treated to the glory. We were quite loud. I had to tell the bar staff why we were so happy, explaining we were Welsh, to which the little man piped up “Wales won!” Glad I already knew the score then.

Then, four and a half hours before our flight, I asked a lady who was booking in groups only for another flight if she could possibly tell me when the check in for our flight was due to open. She just smiled and said “I can check you in now, just come round here.”

I have gone to airport heaven. Thank you oh thank you Singapore for this. If memory services, however, Colombo airport in Sri Lanka is NOT QUITE the same …