Just three weeks ago, I was sat in a a small hotel room, with the window thrown open, listening to the mixed noises of evening time Melacca: there was the rush of mynah birds to reach their roost, the kerfuffle and agitation of thousands of wings; the gorgeous, unearthly call of the muezzin calling people to prayer, mixed in with the sturdy chimes of the local Anglican church tolling the hourly bell, and further away the drums and cymbals of a Hindu temple, and nearer than all of these was the hubbub of the Chinatown night market.

Tonight, I'm at home listening to the occasional Christmas song curl out of the radio and braced against the prospect of an intensely cold night.