‘Move round, face the window. Ok. Pull your knickers down.’

Lula looks at me aghast: ’But mummy people are watching.’

I glance around. ‘They’re all sleeping. No one will see.’

John shakes his head at me, ‘This is all going to go wrong.’

‘Well the only other option is she wees on me. Given that, I’d rather she tried to wee in the bottle.’

‘It’s going to go all over the bus,’ John warns handing me a Tropicana bottle that he’s hacked the top off with a penknife. Very Maguiver.

Lula crouches in the gap where our feet and bags are. I position the bottle underneath her.

‘I can’t hold it anymore,’ she shrieks.

‘Ok go!’ I say as though it’s the start of a steeplechase.

A slick of liquid starts to cascade down the aisle. The bottle isn’t filling.

‘Mummy my feet are wet,’ Lula says from her crouching position amongst the bags.

‘It’s running down the aisle.’ John hisses.

‘No one will notice,’ I hiss back.

Lula pops up to standing.  ‘My DRESS IS ALL WET,’ she yells.

…

(five minutes go by)

‘Mummy. I need another wee.’

My eyes are shut. I’m trying to sleep. ‘Hold it,’ I murmur menacingly.

‘I can’t hold it,’ she wines pitifully.

I open my eyes. My voice is steely, ‘Hold it.’

‘I can’t,’ Lula’s voice is panicky.

‘Well you have to. There’s no loo on this bus and we’re not doing the bottle thing again.‘

—

(sixty seconds go by).

‘I’m leaking.’ She announces.

She is sitting on my lap.

I poke John. Now my voice is panicky too. ‘John, wake up. She needs another wee.’

He opens one eye. ‘She isn’t having another wee. She will have to hold it.’

‘Can’t hold it.’ Lula tells him straight.

I look at John. ‘We’ll have to use the bottle again.’

‘No way.‘

‘Have you got a better idea?’

I think he’d rather she used me as a nappy but I’ve already shoved her off my lap and grabbed the bottle.

‘Right, crouch down again.’

‘Hold it in the right place this time mummy.’

I am not sure what the right place is. I thought I had it right the first time.  ‘Ok. Wee,’ I say.

We hear the sound of tinkling liquid hitting plastic. Result.

‘I’m finished,’ Lula announces.

I hold up the bottle. Three millilitres more and we’d have been in trouble.

‘What are you going to put it in?’ He asks as though I’m on my own on this one.  He looks around then hands me another bottle, ‘You could decant it into this.’

Why am I suddenly having to do all the danger work? So much for Mcguiver. I rest the lip of the wee bottle against the empty bottle. It shakes. I feel like the bomb disposal guy in the Hurt Locker.

‘Just do it in one swift move,’ John urges.

I contemplate how this is going to end. 297ml of warm urine running over my hands and feet.

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. My hand’s jolting. It’ll go everywhere.’

‘Well what are you going to do?’

I notice the continued use of the second person singular rather than the first person plural in this situation.

‘I guess I will just hold it until we get there.’ (unlike Lula)

…

(fifteen minutes later)

I am clutching the now cooling wee bottle.

I turn to John.

‘Apple juice darling?’

John and I are open mouthed with awe and wonderment. We are like two Neanderthals staring at a wheel. I appreciate that Neanderthals don’t talk but work with me. Imagine our knuckles scraping the lino and me grunting.

‘Wow.’

‘How does it work?’

‘Wow.’

‘How does it open?’

‘Wow. Just wow.’

‘Where does the detergent go?’

It has been three months since we’ve seen a washing machine. We literally stand and stare at it for about five minutes then we run. We run for our bags and then we pour their entire contents into the machine. I stop just short of climbing in myself.

I have not missed doing laundry. Just in case you missed that fact. In has regularly topped my list of reasons why I’m not ever going home. Even surpassing the $125usd a month nanny.

However our clothes are so dirty they have their own rating. They are almost sentient they have so many life forms crawling through the fibres. The desire for clean clothes is momentarily overcoming my loathing of laundry doing.

In India we would take a bag of dirty clothes to the nearest shack and hand over 50p in exchange for the promise of a machine wash. In Hindi that translates as bashed against a rock. So all our clothes are bruised and dulled. It’s why I was almost blinded by the colour white when we arrived in Singapore.

In Bali we would hand over a bag of dirty clothes and for $8 they would take them away, iron them and return them wrapped in cellophane. They left out the vital getting wet and adding soap stage. At least, I thought they had. Just turns out they do use a machine, just not with hot water. So pointless. The rock washes were better.  Our clothes are now bruised, dulled, greying and stained.

Yet here before us stands a washing machine with beeping flashing lights, a place for detergent, even a setting for delicates, though I have none anymore (I’ve lost my bras remember).  We add the detergent and I stand and watch as water, hot water and soapy detergent pours into the drum. I have to suppress a tear.

63 minutes later the machine sings to me and I sprint into the kitchen and unload our clean mountain of clothes. I spend approximately the same amount of time hanging them up in soporific heat. I end up more wringing than the clothes. And that is when I remember exactly why and exactly how much I hate doing laundry. And why for the fourth month running ‘not doing my own laundry’ remains top of the can we live here pops.

Singapore. It really is like visiting a Christian university for the weekend. It scares me. I keep expecting to come across the satanic underbelly. So far, no joy.

Even the Amish would find this place too straight and would jump into their wagons and head straight back to Pennsylvania for a good old barn-raising. No wonder Changi airport is the number one visitor attraction.  Ask yourselves why authorities. The second most popular is the zoo.

That’s because people who can’t catch a flight out are flocking to the lion enclosure.

The powers that be don’t want you to have fun.  Because they drew up their constitution after reading 1984. Unless you are Bill Gates you can’t even afford to get drunk thanks to the 400% tax.

And this is why I can’t live here. I can shop here yes. But I can’t live here. It is too goddam wholesome. Too sanitised. If Singapore were a pop group it would be the Jonas brothers. If Singapore were a food it would be uncooked tofu. If Singapore were a drink it would be perrier (because it looks nice, it’s chilled and it’s expensive but ultimately it’s boring and kind of 80s).

If you need further proof check out what I’m flicking through on the tv right now…Justin Bieber is on prime time news. This is followed by a much hyped report on the evolution of Singapore’s public housing. I flick over to a daytime soap which I mistake for an infomercial on a wedding planning service. And finally, with hope slipping away, I come across Enchanted – the Sunday afternoon movie. Hope dies last. Well it died in me in Singapore. Sorry Amy Adams.

Wanting to find some edge, some badness at its core, some sign that people live here and not robots, I visited the Social Innovation Centre and posed the question –‘but what social issues are there to innovate on in Singapore? No. Really.’

The man thought about it for a whole minute before replying (and people it was his JOB to study these issues), ‘Well…people treat their domestic help really badly.’

I wasn’t sure if he was being serious. Was he referring to Alula? How had he found out? Then I saw the posters all around the room – a campaign to ensure Philippino domestic staff get holidays. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a really important campaign – but that was it? That’s the extent of their social issues? I’m telling you, 1984…

‘No, we also have a problem with teenage pregnancy,’ he hastened to add.

I raised an eyebrow. Seriously? That’s like trying to challenge an Irishman to a drinking contest. ‘I come from the UK,’ I replied.

He smiled embarrassed and moved on quickly, telling me about Singapore’s number two visitor attraction – the zoo.

So I guess that means we’ve narrowed the can we live here criteria. Proximity to Topshop falls in its ranking but remains on the list. Readily available, cheap alcohol rises.  And a place with an edge jumps into the top five. A city where the airport is the number one attraction was never going to make the list.

I am going to fire the nanny. It’s either that or one day soon coming home and finding her dressed as Lula’s very own gimp, with a playdoh mask and a stress buster stuck in her mouth.

We’ve already been through one nanny (Made). We didn’t fire her. The Balinese woman who found her for us fired her. Because she had cross-eyes. I didn’t ask her to. We actually liked cross-eyed Made but she insisted, replacing her with a non-cross eyed version – Ketut. Who we’re going to have to fire.

Today I heard strange noises emanating from downstairs – squeals and squeaks and roars. When I descended the steps, heart already sinking, I found Lula playing baby tigers. That’s fine. I applaud the imagination involved and her dedication to method acting, but what I didn’t expect to see is a fully grown woman squeaking and roaring too, whilst on all fours. I’d expect one has to normally pay a lot more than $100USD for that.

I took her aside and told her, ‘Listen, Alula will push your boundaries. You need to be firm with her. She knows not to kick, to shout or be rude. If she is you put her on the naughty step. And by the way, you really don’t need to crawl around in the dirt with her.’

Half an hour later I came downstairs again and found Ketut shadowing Alula – now no longer a baby tiger, now method acting the role of Scarlett O’Hara and Lindsay Lohan’s lovechild. She was flouncing around the living room, Ketut cow-towing in her path, picking up her strewn toys like they were burning cigarette butts, lifting her cup for her whenever she wanted a sip, wiping her butt, cooing and fawning over her like she was a deity or A-list celebrity. And of course, Alula was embracing her new-found star status like a winner on X Factor.

‘The nanny is Alula’s new pet,’ I said to John. ‘If Ketut was a cat, the RSPCA would need to be called . It must stop. We must do something.’

When Ketut leaves, I have words with her. ‘Alula Grace Alderson, you are not to treat Ketut like your own personal plaything. And also she is not there to pick up your things. Who do you think should pick up your things?’

Alula looks at me like I’m stupid or something, ‘The cleaner?’

‘No! Not the cleaner,’ I answer appalled, ‘YOU pick up your things.’ I look at the mess she’s made and think I must act now. Immediately. Before this behaviour becomes ingrained and she starts giving me her rider every morning detailing the number of cornflakes she wants in her bowl, the exact shade of pink her princess knickers must be and the angle at which her bunches must be tied.  ‘Pick up all this mess. At once.’ I demand.

Alula looks at me and thrusts out her belly, ‘I’m not your slave mummy,’ she says.

Needless to say, the nanny must be fired. Maybe I should fire myself too whilst I am at it. I’m obviously raising Rosemary’s baby.

Perhaps we need to hire an animal tamer. Then I have an idea. Let’s hire the exorcist priest instead.