So I just went to the most implausible bar in all Singapore. It's a derelict old backpackers' hotel called the Mitre. You go up Kiliney Road, until all the yuppie restaurants peter off and the road gets quieter, and then turn in up a long, dark driveway. At the end of the driveway - not at all visible from the road - is the crumbling facade of one of the old colonial houses, with the white paint peeling and discarded furniture piled in the corners of the porch and a sense of abandoned doors swinging out in the wind (though they didn't). And then you go in, and the bar is completely empty. It's just a long room with whitewashed walls and dark rafters and creaky old ceiling fans and large gaps in the ceiling and faded old slightly sinister posters on the walls and a mismatched set of broken armchairs lining the walls. and a bar at the far corner. There's a dark, grim staircase at one point with a large sign saying, "Non-residents not allowed upstairs". An old white-haired man limps out from the lighted gap at the far end at this point and says, Do you want a drink? It turns out that he has only Heineken and Tiger. We get our beers and drag chairs around and prop up the rickety coffee-table with a page from Lay Tong's magazine and then Don, Terry and Michelle proceed to discuss "Shutter" in great detail, while Lay Tong and I listen in queasy fascination. The place is perfect. It's everything you could possibly imagine it to be.