The Standard, Singapore

Some great loves are born between the soft folds of high-thread-count sheets. Others, far more mundane but no less life-enhancing, are forged in the fiery furnace of the office environment. This is how I find myself at 6am one morning — bleary eyed and greasy of hair, fresh off my flight from London — hugging my former work wife, Ms Smith, at Changi Airport. I hadn’t seen her since she absconded to Australia with her hunky boyfriend, so when the chance presented itself to fly from opposite corners of the globe to cackle over cocktails in Singapore, we grasped it with both credit-card-wielding hands.

Bags collected and a 25-minute taxi ride later, we stumble into the lobby of The Standard, Singapore at 9am. This is a highly uncivilised time to be checking in, and we’re fully prepared to spend a few harrowing hours fighting jet lag in the tropical heat, but we’re warmly handed keycards by the receptionist and sent on our way to our third-floor twin room. Gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city-state’s signature mix of concrete and luxuriant foliage feels a little like coming home: I used to live in this verdant pocket of Singapore, a residential neighbourhood wedged between the genteel Botanic Gardens and the temple to consumerism that is Orchard Road. Clean-lined and blissfully air-conditioned, our room is functional rather than theatrical — just what’s needed for a 48-hour break between far-flung destinations. Once we’ve figured out the perplexing but undeniably cool bathrobes (Thai designer Shone Puipia has equipped them with tropics-friendly armpit holes), we head to the pool for a refreshing dip. It’s a playful spot at the top of the hotel's terraced gardens, with fruit-shaped inflatables, Miami-pink parasols and wide, stripy day-beds just made for leisurely lounging.

A few lazy laps later, mid-morning munchies propel us to nearby Kaya. By night, The Standard’s restaurant takes its cues from Japanese izakaya dining, but its name is also inspired by the coconut jam that’s a staple of local breakfasts — and we’re just in time for the pan-Asian breakfast buffet. Our attentive waiter interrupts our breathless catch-up with regular deliveries of small plates, right to our table. We wolf down miniature servings of roti and dhal, generously buttered kaya rolls, spicy laksa noodles and buttermilk chicken with a waffled rosti — a selection as multicultural as Singapore itself.

A semblance of human form recovered, we catch the Pick-Up Line (The Standard’s shuttle bus, which runs every 20 minutes between the hotel and nearby Orchard Road) to explore Ion Orchard. The iconic mall is just as bewildering as I remember it, with its eight floors of logo-flaunting shops, art galleries and subterranean food court (stop by LiXin Teochew Fishball Noodles, where the eponymous dish is known for its perfect 'QQ' chewiness). Dazed and drained, we retreat to the Marimekko coffee shop for expertly brewed iced coffees and high-pitched gossip, before crashing out at the hotel, thanks to its salutary black-out blinds.

It’s with a renewed sense of vim and vigour that we head to New Bahru that evening, where the site of a former high school has been reimagined as a creative cluster of indie boutiques, hip restaurants and local designer pop-ups. No Singapore visit is complete without at least one spicy feast, so we meet my former flatmate at Sri Lankan restaurant Kotuwa. Bibs emblazoned with 'Chefs gave me crabs' duly donned, we get handsy with the flavour-packed sharing plates: beef cheeks fried in tamarind, sticky-sweet pork ribs, and a fenugreek-spiked mud crab finally fulfilling its sole purpose in life. Bellies full, we take ourselves to nearby Bar Bon Funk — we have a dozen years of career highs, dalliance lows and everything in between to catch up on, after all. Two rounds of playful, inventive libations in, Ms Smith pronounces the vibes to be immaculate (she’s a cocktail-bar connoisseur), and we’re moved to finish the night at a raucous Chinatown dive bar.

Day two dawns with mild regrets for the night before. I have just the remedy: a quick taxi ride to the Chinatown Complex where Chef Leung, a former Raffles chef of 18 years, now mans a tiny stall dedicated to hawking enormous soup dumplings. It’s a restorative breakfast, particularly paired with freshly squeezed fruit juices (mine’s an organ-supporting apple, beetroot and carrot, if you’re wondering) and a strong, frothy teh tarik. We amble around a rather quiet Chinatown — it’s a hot and sticky Sunday — stopping to sample durian ice-cream and cold-brew teas. I’ve booked us into a Japanese head spa that afternoon (the hotel may not have in-house treatment rooms, but there’s no shortage of self-care sanctuaries in Singapore); it’s a relief to put our feet up and treat our stressed-out scalps to some much-needed attention. We get out just in time to catch the evening sound-and-light show at Gardens by the Bay, a sci-fi rainforest built on reclaimed land over Marina Bay. Later that night, there’ll be chargrilled satay, suitcases packed, plans made for our respective flights to our next destinations. But for now, under the rainbow lights of the garden’s towering man-made 'trees', Ms Smith and I pour our hearts into singing along badly to the loudspeaker show tunes. One thing’s for sure: some friendships are worth flying halfway around the world for.