This is a shame, because Singapore, only one degree and 88 miles north of the equator, has a climate which while not particularly conducive to human comfort (oh, the sweating! the constant dry cleaning! the aircon bills!) is perfect for a huge variety of wonderful tropical plant life.
I grew up in the south of England, which as everybody knows is cold and wet for 98% (possibly 99%) of the year. When I was a child, palm trees and orchids were an unimaginable tropical mirage, belonging to exotic mystery lands that existed for me only on the pages of the holiday brochures I used to swipe from Thomas Cook when we went to pick up our French francs (yes, that dates it) for our annual trip to Brittany. Now you can buy them in Waitrose, of course. But in Singapore, they grow everywhere, and it is just beautiful to see. At the moment, in the lead-up to next month's celebrations for the 50th anniversary of Singapore's independence, the national flower of Singapore is blooming everywhere you look, particularly in the Botanic Gardens (the beauty of which has recently earned them the title of UNESCO World Heritage Site) - they're even growing in the branches of the frangipani trees. It's really quite spectacular.
Sadly my repurposed car port doesn't quite rival the Botanics, but for me it does have the advantage of being three feet from my front door, and so every six months or so I wake up on a Saturday morning and decide that Yes! Today is The Day I Will Fix The Garden. This happened last weekend and the result has made me so giddily, childishly, happy that I just want to spend all my time sitting in it gazing at the miracle of having chillies (chillies!!!!) and orchids (ORCHIDS!!!!!) growing in front of my eyes.
With the (extremely hard - see above re climate and imagine being up to your elbows in potting compost in 35 degree heat and 90% humidity for three hours) work of Saturday fresh in my mind, I am currently caring for my plants with the tenderness of a horticultural Florence Nightingale. I freak out if my mint is looking a bit droopy, and panic at the first signs of a hibiscus bloom wilting. If history is anything to go by though, this solicitousness will fade over the course of the coming weeks, the garden will be recolonised by the paddling pool and the sun-bleached primaries of the plastic wendy house, the jungle will take over again, and the cycle will repeat itself. But for the time being, enjoying a cold glass of white and listening to the buzz and chirp of the insect nightlife after the kids have gone to bed, it's pretty much perfect.
