Thanks to diligent work by the crew we are pitched early into Changi airport at 6.30am local time (3.30am Maldivian time) after a poor night's sleep. We did fly through a thunderstorm which could have been good but you see nothing but cloud then bright flashes and the occaisional loud bang as, presumably, we are struck by lightning.
Changi's quite a good airport with plenty of decent shops and several feature gardens (koi ponds, sunflower, cactus, etc.) some of which are outdoors allowing smokers freedom to add to the general airport pollution -- but only within the yellow lines, of course.
A translation of a French guide "what to do when you're in transit" -- there doesn't appear to be a definitive English version -- suggests there's a free city tour available. We sign up for the 1pm bumboat tour.
That leaves a large gap [in the day] partly covered by several free coffee refills from breakfast but there's only so much coffee you can drink. Much window shopping suggests that we aren't seeing many bargains.
Our tour is quite strict and we have to sign out through immigration then hand over our passports so that we don't do a runner. It's a bit of a madcap tour, I guess there's a lot to see in Singapore, aided and abetted by our guide, a female Georgie, who seems to spend the tour talking and joking with herself or some imaginary guest.
Bumboats, the "highlight" of the tour, turn out to be squashed dhonis -- obviously not a good description if you've not seen a dhoni -- which motor up and down some river playing a taped history with irritating metal clanks between comments which are a sign to the pilot to stop the tape and move further down the river. Which he does but not to quite the right place for the tape so some liberal imterpretation is required. Singapore did have the mighty KFC, Pizza Hut and Taco Bell triumvirate in one shop. A taste explosion just waiting to happen.
Back on the coach, just moments after declaring that all taxis over 7 years and private cars over 10 years are crap (I think an "s" and and "ed" were lost in her accent) the bus broke down, then the heavens opened. That was the cue for Helen and I to spontaneously fall asleep. Back at the airport there isn't a formal close to the tour, we're just given our passports and thrust back into the departures lounge. Ah well.
The Subway chain [16,000 branches worldwide -- I hadn't seen one before] offers some reasonable torpedo sandwiches at a bargainous (for an airport) S$ 15 for two (S$ 1.75 to US$ 1). As I write torrential rain has started up with some lightning. This as I return from the toilet: for the second time I have been put off my (admittedly reluctant) motions by a cleaner/maintainer going about their business in a noisy and distracting fashion. I've not been brought up to perform for a crowd, you know!
Changi airport cactus garden N1.36302
E103.98931 Elev. 80m. Only 1.3 degrees north of the Equator! 
Air New Zealand are operating a frighteningly old (by comparison) 767. The cheaper Airbuses may not have the per-seat screen as with the 777 but at least they feel new. I'm quite sure that old Ford Cortinas make excellent taxis but I'd be a bit suspicious as we went over potholes, similarly the 767 has a certain elderlyness to it without (yet) attaining vintage status. On the other hand, quite unlike the UK (and possibly Emirates) there appears to be no stigma attached to air stewarding and we are served by men and women a good generation older than British aircrew. Our only worry was the pilot, the sort of stature where his cap looked like it had legs and glasses that Alice might have used to see the label on the bottle. I wonder if the airline supplied a cushion?
Copyright 2002 Ian Fitchet. All rights reserved.