Sunday, October 16, 2011

How much tofurkey is too much tofurkey?

Yesterday I found Cold Storage, the rather unappetisingly named supermarket that's spread across Singapore, and a few minutes from my office. Finally I could find something to eat that wasn't just overpriced croissants sold by a hatchet-faced harridan, or something made of meat served up by somebody cheerful. I grabbed some dried fruit and other staples and took them home, where I spent the evening planning to read Len Deighton and sleep.

One thing I bought that I've never tried before was smoked tofurkey. Indeed, tofurkey has always been a stranger to me, if we exclude the time my wife bought me tofurkey kielbasa (and I'm trying to put that behind me as much as I can). Tofurkey comes in slices, like the revolting sliced processed ham that carnivores can put in sandwiches. I had a loaf of bread, a pack of tofurkey and a bag of fruit flavoured dinosaurs: a wild night was ahead of me.

I ate some tofurkey, went for a run, ate some more tofurkey, read a bit of the Len Deighton, took a train back to Orchard and bought some new running shoes, returned to the hotel, and ate some more tofurkey. Then I found myself watching a version of Predators where the swearing had been removed. Because it's acceptable to show people being butchered by alien hunters but not to have any bad language, right?

When I got up this morning, the sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. This was a very bad thing as I had a twelve mile run ahead of me; I managed six miles, then ran out of water, and walked four more before running the last two, the taste of tofurkey torturing me as I went.

When I got back to the hotel, I necked a bottle of water, showered, nearly fainted, nearly vomitted, and then went back to bed, on the basis that I'd do the least damage to myself there.

Oh, and then I ate some more tofurkey.

On the TV was Command Performance, a film written by and starring Dolph Lundgren, a bit like Die Hard, if the Nakatomi Plaza had been a Russian concert hall, and John McClain had had pretensions about being a rock star. It was only half way through that I realised I'd watched this piffle before, demonstrating the maxim that those who do not learn from the mistakes of watching terrible Dolph Lundgren films are doomed to repeat them.

After that, Predators came on again, so I decided to get up and do something with my life. I was going to find my laundry.

All this running in Singapore has produced a lot of sweaty clothes, which have failed to dry in my room. On Thursday night I dropped a bag of stinky gear off ... And then nothing more. Since it was Sunday and there was no sign of my underpants, I went to the front desk, where a man brought them out for me. I quibbled about the bill, on the basis that they'd spent three days getting back to me, and he told me that it wasn't hotel policy to put the laundered clothes in the guest's room. I told him that was ridiculous, he told me it was the hotel rules, I pointed out that these rules weren't documented anywhere that I could see and that maybe they should have mentioned it when I dropped the laundry off.

Eventually he summoned his manager, telling him that I couldn't understand. I tend to be offended by that, because my comprehension wasn't the problem here. After some seething, I paid up, and then to pacify me they gave me two free breakfasts, which was nice. It turns out the squeaky wheel does get some oil.

It is a strange hotel. Last night I found a fake iPhone in the safe, which has either been there since Sunday, or somebody on the staff has hidden it there more recently. For five minutes I was terrifically excited to have found an iPhone, until I noticed it was missing the "i" and the apple logo, and there was no way to charge the battery.

The lifts are very, very slow. The gym, as mentioned previously, is teeny-tiny and has haunted running machines.

And worst of all, my mouth tastes of smoked tofurkey.


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