Our previous convivial-cycle having been forsaken, W, H, L and I finally regroup for the first time in at least six months. L, nothing if not well-shod, is wearing woven heels which make crumpled squeaks with each step. It is skin-flaying at first, but I slowly become inured to the noise. We promenade down to One Fullerton. I cannot help thinking Waterloo Sunset ("dirty old river/must you keep rolling/rolling into the night/people so busy/make me feel dizzy/taxi lights shine so bright"), but this is another milieu entirely, engineered to complex specifications. Our urban dichotomies are no longer as distinct as concrete jungle vs. green-belt/space, frenzy vs. tranquility. The tension no longer consists in infrastructural sprawl encroaching on the preserves of feral Nature. We now demand an extrapolation of Fallingwater, a seamless integration of the wrought and the elemental. But there is Junkspace everywhere threatening to annex the entirety of our built landscape. Shining example: the polished subterranean sterility of the underpass linking the Fullerton and One Fullerton. It is a horrendous vacancy, a strictly utilitarian structure stylised for its own sake. Automatic travellators which move slower than even the pace of an ancient crone. The One Fullerton stretch itself, however, is Boat Quay all grown up and gentrified (if that word even carries legitimate meaning anymore), a waterfront runway of subtle bustle and balmy calm. Commercial coffee-franchise and steakhouse nestle amid destination dining and clubbing. High-toned socialites poise themselves appropriately at the pierside/Pierside tables. Extended families stroll along, watching the ships go by, oblivious to the teeming droves of fashionistas and gastronauts reposing in their not-so-exclusive domain (neo-socialist state that we are, delineations of class, territorial or otherwise, are next to nonexistent): Embargo, incandescent lights murmuring in the dark, lustrous surfaces, ergonomic sofas. But they too have made the concession to unabashed pop culture: screening the World Cup.

We settle on Pierside. Sipping iced water while seated outside (preprandial cocktail menu is too extensive), awaiting the conclusion of a private function. At some point I swear the soundtrack to a nature documentary started playing. Then it segued, possibly hugely embarrassed, into the usual "chillout" aural wallpaper which everyone is so fond of nowadays. Bar-snacks: saucisson with mustard (turgid), cumin-spiced crab rolls (glorified spring rolls, but very good). We devour three (two repeat-requests) large homemade loaves of ciabatta with three deceptively austere-looking condiments: basil cream cheese, olive oil, sea salt. My potato-crusted Chilean seabass with blue crab broth and clams is another triumph. Silky and delicate, as lubricious as cod but with a purer texture, wrapped tightly in crispy tuber-tendrils, sitting on a clambankment. L's wild mushroom risotto is eagerly anticipated (only by myself) after previous proven glory of squid ink version, but it disappoints. Still, this mild excitement is nothing compared to the wildly throbbing prospect of being able to taste the legendary basil crepes with banana (they refused to show when I was here last), which J proclaimed possibly the best dessert ever! I regret to report that it was merely excellent. I am beginning, I think, to be stupefied by the uniformly awesome magic of desserts which seem to be everywhere. Either that or my sweet teeth are not acute enough to tell the difference.

The usual desultory roving and chronic indecision after dinner. Embargo on Embargo and similar outfits because we have had enough of being sedentary. I spot H's feet itching to get their groove on. Following a round of fruitless ferreting, L departs in her usual fashion, and the three left behind end up at a louche KTV lounge which should have a documentary made about it. This really is sleazy Singapore. It is the absolute nadir of crassness. It looks like a remaindered piece of Bugis Street at its lurid height, except that you wouldn't find framed and spotlighted replicas of the Mona Lisa and Van Gogh's Sunflowers in reality. I have previously avowed never to squander my time and money at such an establishment ever again, but this time I gave in, and I feel perversely compelled to return. It will assuredly unsettle all your notions of what it means to "have no taste". Beyond a certain point, undercurrents of the surreal begin to intervene. Your sensibilities are so utterly revolted that no measured, rational response is possible. If we had not been outrageously charged $10 for the compulsory bowl of canned longans, bringing me back to the real world of commercial skulduggery and sneakily tacked-on cutthroat charges, I might have been lost in la-la land forever.