One of the prerequisites for becoming a global citizen is the ability to treat every country as home (that is, every country where the present government has been in power for at least two hours and members of the armed forces are all over eighteen (how much more stylish it is to spell out numbers, in the vein of recent film titles (and in a ridiculous form of decadence I will take the chance to use brackets within brackets within brackets))) so that the frequent jet-setting will not induce too great an upheaval in one's life.

Such a description can only conjure up the image of the glamorous, super-bourgeoisie pink Taittinger sipping jet-set bedecked in designer clothings and accessories; like haute couture magazine photos come alive in a macabre, Flatworld-esque fashion. But for the rest of us, the transition between two countries is usually an event and not something like clipping ones toenails. There usually is an air of novelty and unfamiliarity in arriving in a country after spending a considerable amount of time in another, especially for those who have been bred on travel for the purposes of tourism only.

Thus I was a little miffed coming home for the first time (but perhaps with the knowledge that I would soon be travelling elsewhere again) not to find the air of importance that usually surrounds such an event. Of course there were the usual familial greetings and warmth which are customary and necessary (such as my mother's gastronomic re-education programme) but otherwise I could have been returning from any other place.

But that's probably because I had already unconsciously swapped "home countries" (but enough already about 'stayers' and 'quitters' so oddly (I hope it does not last long) here had become like another tourist destination. In fact, the only other place I've been to so far has inevitably been Orchard road (and the fact that it rained so heavily I couldn't make out the festive lights is probably some sort of cautionary sign the meaning of which is unclear) and the fumes of capitalism gave me a headache. It was probably time to go home when I swayingly saw the words on the MRT sign mysteriously morph into "Oxford" (more than a passing resemblance really).

It will be time to depart again, thus consigning this little jaunt (a word that does not do justice to the revulsion felt at a 13 thirteen hour flight in economy class) to a mere rest stop, but perhaps for now like a rest stop of throwaway importance and stale coffee.