The short flight to Singapore was an eventful one as we found ourselves seated next to an overweight Singaporean with a withered right arm and an extremely loose tongue.

Max, we learnt, is happily married to a Chinese woman with whom he shares a young son of 10 months. He enthusiastically informed us that he bathes three times a day but his wife, he added, whilst shaking his head in disbelief, only once. His dark expression left us in no doubt that this was nothing less than disgusting. Max also, apparently, holds the firm belief that life is for living and struggles to hide his frustration at the thought of people saving their money ‘for a rainy day’.

“You might be dead tomorrow”, he added cheerfully.

Over the course of the flight, Max also gave us a thorough account of everything worth seeing in his home city, complete with bus numbers, times and costs, all relayed from memory.

On top of this, he happily recounted his days as an illegal dealer of exotic animals in the famous Chatuchak market of Bangkok. In a slightly hushed tone and only after checking over both shoulders, he told us how he had ‘got out’, after a friend and fellow dealer was targeted in an FBI sting operation before being extradited to America, where he subsequently spent nine months in prison.

Well, It definitely beat the usual “so where are you from?” conversations, that you often find yourself engaged in against both your will and better judgement.

After arriving in Singapore, Max offered to share his taxi with us after he realised that his home was in the same general direction that we were heading. As luck would have it, it was also handily situated next to a bus stop that ran services to Orchard Road, our ultimate destination. He refused to let us pay anything for the taxi and even offered to give us some change for the bus. We politely declined his generous offer and thanked him for the free taxi ride as he, in response, wished us well, turned, and continued on his way.

I couldn’t help but smile as he disappeared into the gray housing estate that I presumed was his home. What a top bloke. Meeting people like Max are what makes travelling such a great experience. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough to make an impression on us both. It was a genuine pleasure to have met him.

Our return to the ever scorching city of Singapore and its lofty prices, brought with it a return to shared dormitories. We stayed at the guidebook recommended, Sleepy Sam’s Guesthouse, which is situated along a charming, pedestrianised side street on the outer reaches of Little India. A large, pearl white mosque overlooks the area at one end of the short street which, at precise intervals, emits the eerily atmospheric chanting that signal the Muslim call to prayer. The spotlessly clean area is awash with small boutique shops and charming Indian restaurants, while the air is filled with the distinct fruity scent of the traditional Hookah (water pipes) and the excited chatter of diners.

A short two minute stroll away, on the adjoining North Bridge Road, stands Zam Zam, the budget Muslim restaurant that offers more than a passing resemblance to a school dinner hall. Basic but endearing, it also produces some of the finest eastern fare to be found anywhere in this area, or any other for that matter.

Of our three nights in Singapore, we found ourselves heading through their enticing doors three times. On each occasion, without hesitation, the mutton murtabak was number one on our order. Personally, I had never heard of murtabak before, but decided that the guidebooks description of, “flaky flat bread stuffed with mutton, with spicy sauce”, sounded pretty good and, trust me when I say, it tasted even better than it sounded. If you get the chance, grab one, I would highly recommend it.

The following morning, we made our way out into the bright sunshine and unyielding humidity, setting off towards the single most famous landmark of the city, the five star Raffles Hotel.

Being the home of arguably the countries most celebrated export, the Singapore Sling, the hotel has long since noted the potential flow of tourist dollars and opened its doors to the general public as well as guests.

As we climbed the white marble steps of the entrance, the subtle grandeur of the place was obvious. With it, came Aimee’s sudden paranoia that we were underdressed.

“Take your hat off”, she hissed through clenched teeth as we passed through the door.

“Why?”.

“Because…” she began, “…I’m not being asked to leave because you look like a chav”.

I removed my hat.

Situated on the second floor of the hotel, overlooking the well groomed courtyards lined with exclusive designer outlets such as Louis Vuitton and Tiffany, you will find the characteristic Long Bar.

Stepping through the wooden double doors, we were confronted by dozens of tourists scattered around the bustling, yet strangely relaxed venue. A rather lengthy bar that some may even describe as ’long’, lines the right hand side of the room, behind which stand the attentive, traditionally dressed staff. Around the room are dozens of wooden tables with matching, padded seats. Similar to those you might find in the average conservatory. On the centre of each table is a large dark wood bowl filled with monkey nuts. Everywhere you look - and tread - are the discarded shells, as the previous occupants, in keeping with the long held tradition of the place, simply drop them onto the tiled floor. There is music playing in the background over the hidden speakers dotted around the room. Strangely, rather than the traditional sounds you might expect, it is the vocals of Amy Winehouse that fill the room.

After taking a seat towards the far end of the bar, we ordered one Singapore Sling and one half yard of Tiger beer, which came in the traditional ‘yard‘ style glass, complete with wooden stand. And so, over the next hour, we ate (monkey nuts), drank (Singapore Sling) and were merry. Literally. One drink and I was anyone’s. It was shameful.

I quickly sobered up however, at the sight of the bill.

“Jeeeesus Christ…” was all I could manage as I glanced down at the total.

“Don’t embarrass me” Aimee whispered without looking at me.

At S$61.40 for what was essentially an average sized, premixed cocktail, and a little over a pint of bog standard lager, its safe to assume our visit will remain, a one off.

It never fails to amaze me how, what we perceive to be ‘posh’ venues, are allowed to charge such ridiculous prices. And, what’s more, how we somehow manage to justify paying them to ourselves.

The next two sights on our particular tourist trail were the London Eye look-a-like and, allegedly, tallest Ferris wheel in the world, The Singapore Flyer, followed by the huge, lush, Singapore Zoo, which, we believe, is the second best in the world behind the late Steve Irwin’s top notch Australian equivalent.

Generally being against the whole concept of zoo’s I do not say this lightly, however, the various bodies charged with overseeing zoo standards the world over could do worse than using these two as the benchmark for both consumer experience and animal welfare. Spacious, well maintained and informative, they are a class above.

Now, prior to our departure from Singapore and with it, South East Asia, we had one thing left to do. Namely, pay Qantas, our faithful airline to whom we have bequeathed a years worth of business, S$60 for absolutely nothing.

To explain, a little over two weeks ago we made the decision to head to India two weeks early and, as such, called the Qantas office and asked to amend the departure date. The friendly call centre operative duly did so there and then. Without fuss. The new flight was confirmed.

That was not the end of this particular tale though. There was a catch. Apparently, we were required to pay what was officially titled, ‘local administration costs’, payable to the country that you happen to be in at the time. In our case this was Singapore and the local fee stood at S$30 per person.

Being good, honest (some would call us naïve) citizens however, we located the small, stuffy Qantas office, located on the upper floors of a modern, glass fronted sky scraper in the suburbs of Singapore, and went about handing over the fee. The miserable looking woman guarding the desk just inside the door looked as though she was sucking on a lemon, her face screwed up in an expression that seemed to demonstrate a heartfelt distaste towards us.

We offered her an exaggerated, toothy grin in return.

And then, we were ’processed’.

It took all of thirty seconds. After studiously observing the miserable lemon sucker, I feel reasonably certain that she did absolutely nothing besides print us a copy of the details that we already had, for the flight that was already confirmed. Oh, and take our money.

Are we to assume then, that this cost Qantas S$60? If that is the case, all I can say is either the price of paper has reached record heights, or, I need to get me a job there. At those rates the lemon sucker has an hourly wage of around S$720.

Leaving the building we glanced at each other. We didn’t need to say anything. We both knew. We had been stiffed again. Only this time from under the murky veil of corporate respectability.

To anyone out there on a round the world ticket, I say only this:

If you plan to edit flights at all during your trip - do not pay the local fee that the various airlines claim is necessary. Just forget about it and head to the airport. Chances are they will not say a word and, frankly, the ‘fee’ is nothing more than legalised financial rape anyway.

At 19:00 that evening, thirty dollars lighter, we arrived at the airport, well in advance of our departure time of 23:10.

If any of you have ever passed through Singapore airport, you will know exactly what I mean when I say that it is massive. Complete with shopping centre, cinema, swimming pool and full, top class spa facilities, it is a tourist attraction in its own right. As a result, our plan was to arrive early, giving ourselves an opportunity to wander around. As it turned out however, we were set to have more than enough time. More than we knew at this point, in fact.

After loading our bulging backpacks onto a trolley and being escorted to the departure lounge by a short, bearded Thai man who turned out to be an avid Liverpool fan, whilst engaging in a heated debate on where the current season has gone so wrong, we found ourselves standing beneath a wide, flat screen monitor displaying the current status of all outgoing flights.

Strangely, after a minute or two of silent concentration, there appeared to be no 23:10 flight to Delhi showing on the list.

Curious.

After looking a little closer and checking the flight numbers, we discovered that it was in fact there, only, it was no longer departing at 23:10. The screen read:

Destination Time

Delhi 06:30 (Re-timed)

This had to be a mistake. I mean, surely someone would have informed us of a delay of more than seven hours. Qantas have both our email and telephone number and, to top things off, we were standing in their Singapore office only a few hours ago - paying them for the privilege of changing to this particular flight.

We had also checked out of the hotel in order to make our way here ahead of time, enjoying the delights of overcrowded public transport, whilst hauling what is basically a full sized wardrobe on our backs in the process.

Safe to say, as well as being a little sweaty and dishevelled, we were not amused.

Looking across the departures hall, we could see a young, local woman seated at the check-in desk for our flight. Even from this distance you could see it. Her face glistening in the artificial light. She looked as though her preferred instrument for applying makeup was the trowel. God help her if she started sweating. You could have stood her in Madame Tussauds and no-one would have spotted her there, imprisoned beneath six inches of solid foundation.

Anyway, she worked for the airline and by now we had decided, she was going to get it.

“The flight to Delhi at eleven ten, the board says it has been retimed, is that right?” We asked after storming towards her.

A nod of the head and a smarmy look was the response we were given to indicate that, yes, that was correct. Plastic head didn’t seem to care, quite honestly.

“OK, well why weren’t we contacted if the flight was being retimed?”, we fired back through clenched teeth.

“Well, were your contact details against the booking?” She asked in a sarcastic tone, with her head slightly tilted to one side and eyebrows raised in a dismissive gesture

“Yes, actually, phone and email” Aimee spat out before I could get a word in.

This was met with a stony silence. After a few seconds I had decided that her face must have set to the point that she physically couldn’t move her mouth. Could she breathe in there? I considered calling for help and telling her that it was ok, someone would be along to get her out shortly.

Before I could though, she spoke, advising us to go and speak to the actual airline help desk when it opens in half an hours time (in other words, go and bother someone else), adding:

“Its been like this for the last two weeks, flights being delayed due to fog in Delhi. Nobody has been contacted”.

Ok, hold up, let me get this straight. This is not a one off issue, brought about by engine trouble or the like? No, this is a two week old situation that is well known to the airline and, still, the enlightened souls over at castle Qantas did not feel the need to contact its passengers.

Well, now we were practically frothing at the mouth. Just as we were about to set upon the smarmy cow however, the quiet, softly spoken security guard stood over her right shoulder, who I hadn’t even noticed up to this point, obviously sensed the rising tension and stepped in.

“I think I can help clear up the situation“, he began, in a calm, assured voice. “All passengers will be transferred to the Carlton Hotel for the night. Transport, dinner and accommodation will be taken care of by the airline”.

Plastic head just sat there. Maybe she was smiling under there, I couldn’t tell.

Now, for those of you that don’t know, like us before we arrived there, the Carlton Hotel is a four star establishment. Or, to put it simply, another world by the standards we have been used to this past year. It was akin to spending the night on a fluffy white cloud in the leafy suburbs of heaven. Only, with satellite TV. Suddenly we were disappointed that the flight wasn’t delayed for longer.

Upon arrival, we were also given a meal voucher to be used for dinner at the hotel restaurant. We weren’t even hungry but decided to check it out anyway. It was free after all and, quite honestly, Qantas owed us S$60 as far as I was concerned.

Thank god we did as well.

It was buffet. Or, in other words: all you can eat. It was also the single finest buffet I have ever seen. From salad, soup and cheese plates, through to fresh seafood, carvery and home made ice cream. We entered the restaurant out of defiance rather than hunger, but left having seen off more than four plates each - plus desert. The Carlton Hotel and its well to-do guests did not know what had hit it. On this fateful night, two scruffy backpackers rubbed shoulders with the well scrubbed elite and ate like kings. Only, a little faster and with less manners.

And thus, after undoing the top button of our trousers in the interests of comfort, we reluctantly bid farewell to the gourmet spread and retreated to our luxurious suite, only a few hours away from our early morning flight to India, the land of forts, curries and the Taj Mahal…