Yet another iconic food hangout - the McDonald's in King Albert Park - is going to close.

Even as some folks bemoan the loss of heritage places like Bukit Brown cemetary, it is a little-reported fact that other places - arguably also landmarks - are not spared the winds of so-called progress.

But they hardly ever make headline or stir up loud protests from fans even though these places are no less entrenched or treasured in our collective memories.

And while these places or establishments will not likely be championed by interest groups as vocal as nature or conservation societies, they are the places that have fed generations and provided a pivotal socialising point have perhaps made a much greater impact on people’s lives.

But while one can argue that another food outlet can start another chain of cherished memories again, still, a part of our lives is uprooted and lost in this relentless march of transformation, made more acute in Singapore by the fact that money can be made from property redevelopment.

The latter motive is really what is driving a new owner to pay $150 million to take over McDonald’s Place - where the familiar fast-food restaurant has called home since 1991 - at the junction of Bukit Timah and Clementi roads.

Both this outlet and another McDonald’s branch - which closed after its site in Marine Cove was returned to the authorities for a revamp - must have been like a friend or refuge to generations of Singaporeans.

Some employees worked there for years.

Couples spent dating time in these outlets and later came back with their own families.

Deals were nurtured or cemented there, from property to insurance.

Birthdays were celebrated, friendships nourished and toys collected for McDonald’s often tied up with movie distributors to issue premiums.

It was no wonder then that when the Marine Cove outlet closed in March, it marked its end - and a new beginning - by staging a walkathon to its new outlet in East Coast Park, about 500 staff and customers took part.

Thirty years of memories are not easy to let go but, thanks to modern gadgets like mobile phones with video-taping capabilities, enough evidence must surely have been compiled to record who did what and when in that place.

The memories are personal yet communal in the sense that the stories they tell are also a reflection of the changing times, lifestyle habits and trends in Singapore.

Do such photos have a place in the National Archives? I think so.

 Even as some folks bemoan the loss of heritage places like Bukit Brown cemetery, it is a little-reported fact that other places - arguably also landmarks – are not spared the winds of so-called progress. But they hardly ever make headline or stir up loud protests from fans even though these places are no less entrenched or treasured in our collective memories.

What I’m not so keen on is having scorching wax dribbled onto my face, then ripped off with what feels like Scotch Tape.

Yet, this was my punishment for vanity after I let my wife talk me into going for a facial.

Call me naive, but I imagined it would be a calming, tranquil experience.

Images flashed before me of cool cucumbers over the eyelids and contented housewives nodding off to the soulful strains of amorous whales serenading one another across the ocean.

Never in my blackest nightmares did I imagine being trussed up like a Christmas turkey and tormented with an arsenal of terrifying implements that felt like they’d been shipped straight from Guantanamo Bay.

First, the auntie who ran the beauty parlour asked me to lie on a bed. So far so good, I thought. If lying down were a sport, I’d be an Olympic athlete.

But no sooner had I begun to relax than I was jolted from my reverie by the unpleasant sensation of slippery, weird smelling oil being slathered over my forehead as if it were a bodybuilder’s torso.

Worse was to come. My tormentor vanished momentarily before re-emerging from her back-room lair pushing a trolley packed full of potions and what looked like home improvement tools.

Please, not the Scotch Tape!

I flinched as I felt the hot wax bite. Yet it was nothing compared to the pain as the grinning beauty therapist superglued strips of cloth to my exposed skin then tore them away with a nonchalant flick of the wrist.

I’ve never been a particularly religious man, but as I felt the adhesive clamp itself around my delicate eyelid like the jaws of a Venus Flytrap, I actually found myself praying.

I’m not saying the beauty therapist did a bad job with my facial.

After all, my wife trusts her with her life.

But being poked and prodded by a complete stranger is simply not my idea of relaxation. I’d much rather spend the day sitting in a pub or coffee shop with a good book and a bottle of Tiger.

It’s not like there was even anything wrong with my skin in the first place. OK, it’s always been a bit red, but what do you expect from an Englishman living in the tropics?

A girl once told me I had very big pores. I had no idea what she meant, but took it as a compliment.

I’m even less of a fan of massages, especially ones I haven’t asked for.

The other day, I was having my hair cut when the male hairdresser suddenly put his scissors down and started kneading my shoulders with his stubby fingers.

Now maybe I’m just old fashioned, but when I go to the barber I expect him to concentrate his efforts on my head.

If my shoulders were covered in hair, it would be a different story - he could give them a short back and sides.

But thankfully, most of my hair still resides up top. So as far as I’m concerned, the rest of my body should remain firmly out-of-bounds.

Just try telling this to your average overzealous freelance masseur. I was on holiday in Bali recently when I spied my wife lying on the beach as three old crones hovered over her like the witches from Macbeth.

One was massaging her feet, another was doing something to her head, while the third clutched a bottle that looked like it might contain the eye of a newt or the toe of a bat.

My wife seemed to be enjoying herself, so I lay down next to her to sleep.

Just as I was dozing off, I felt an icy touch on my neck.

It was one of the weird sisters, come to claim another victim.

'Massage, massage,' chanted the old crone as she stroked me with her scaly talon.

I politely declined, only for her friend to come over and do exactly the same thing. In the end, I had to go surfing just to get away from them.

It was either that or hire an exorcist.

I know that I’m in the minority when it comes to massages. You probably love them, and why not?

For millennia, those healing hands have brought calm to many a tense shoulder blade.

For an expat with a phobia of massages, moving to Singapore was perhaps not the most obvious choice.

Although I have no figures to back this up, they seem much more popular here than in my native Britain.

There are parlours everywhere, some of which look like they offer a lot more than just beauty treatments.

But what I don’t understand is why the masseur usually feels the need to say something like, 'Wow, you’re so uptight. Just feel all those knots in your shoulders. You need to relax more!'

If I was already relaxed, I wouldn’t need a massage, would I? Anyway, I can’t think of anything more likely to stress customers out than ordering them to be calm. It’s a bit like trying to fall asleep. The more self conscious you are, the harder it is to actually do it.

Which is why I’ve given up on 'soothing' beauty treatments. Relaxation is all well and good, but sometimes it can feel a little too much like hard work.

But despite the growing backlash, one particularly sordid and unethical journalist has so far managed to escape unscathed.

Don't be fooled by his boyish charm and innocent looking white dog.

This amoral hack thinks nothing of breaking into homes, stealing private property and hounding innocent members of the public halfway across the globe to get his grubby little hands on a scoop.

Worse still, he's been doing it right under the noses of Singapore's cinema-going public.

Yes, if you're looking for an example of the gutter press at its grubbiest, look no further than Tintin.

Hergé's chubby cheeked adventurer may seem harmless enough, with his comfy sweaters and baggy brown slacks. In reality, he's even more slippery than the Brylcreem on his pointy ginger quiff.

If you've watched this cartoon baddie in action over the past week or so, you’ll know exactly what I mean. First, he sneaks into the home of Mr Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine – illustrious descendent of the celebrated pirate Red Rackham. As if that's not bad enough, he violates the poor man's privacy even further by trying to pinch his model ship.

The Gallic gum-shoe goes on to illegally intercept Mr Sakharine's telegrams, before harassing him again and again – eventually following him all the way to Morocco. He even tricks a drunken sea captain into helping him plumb the depths on behalf of his downmarket rag Le XXe Siècle.

All the time, he has the cops in his pocket – in particular, two bumbling English detectives who seem more interested in tipping him off than solving crimes.

Had mobile phones been around in 1930s Belgium, Tintin would no doubt have hacked them too.

Forget Hugh Grant – if the British media ethics inquiry wants a glimpse of the true face of tabloid harassment, what better witness to call than the long-suffering Mr Sakharine?

To be fair, Tintin has a number of defences up his knitted sleeve. For a start, he's not real. And even if fictional characters were included in the rogues' gallery of disreputable journalism, our boyish Belgian may not even be the worst offender.

What about Lois Lane?

The brunette bombshell is without doubt the world's least observant reporter. How she failed to notice that Clark Kent looks exactly the same as Superman, but with glasses on, we'll never know. Had Britain's privacy-hungry celebrities only thought of the spectacles trick, they could have saved themselves all those long nights spent fleeing the paparazzi.

Anyway, Lois is definitely not above using her looks to snare a story. The ultimate honey trap, she does her best to flatter and cajole her way into Superman's pants – worn outside his tights, of course. Meanwhile, all she really wants is to unmask his true identity, although she never stops to ask whether this gross invasion of his privacy is in the public interest. What's worse, I've not seen her get her notebook out once.

Lois has only one real rival when it comes to fictional hackettes – the Daily Prophet's Rita Skeeter. Yet although this dastardly reporter from the Harry Potter series has many loathsome qualities, I have to admit I quite like the fact that she works for a newspaper with pictures that move. Yes, when it comes to new media journalism platforms, our Rita's well ahead of the game.

Which brings us back to reality, and her creator J.K. Rowling, who gave evidence at the inquiry last week. Given what she told the panel about her own experiences at the hands of the media, it's obvious that Rita's character is not quite as far fetched as people may have assumed. In fact, some might say the real life hacks are even more devious than anything a novelist could dream up.

Whatever your take on Britain's tabloid scandal, as more and more shocking allegations emerge, one thing's becoming increasingly clear - in the world of newspapers, truth really is stranger than fiction.

It was no secret that the British soul diva with the towering beehive hairdo and even bigger talent had been fighting a losing battle against various addictions.

Her best known song was titled Rehab and the press had cruelly nicknamed her Wino – a reference to her debauched lifestyle, which was fuelled by a destructive on-off relationship with her junkie former husband Blake Fielder-Civil.

But there was another reason why her tragic death – which was recently found to be due to alcohol poisoning – had an air of inevitability about it. She was 27. That’s the same age as Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and a host of other legends whose untimely demise earned them a place in the infamous 27 Club.

And although there is no statistical proof that a person – musician or not – is more likely to die at this particular time of life than any other, the apparent glut of overdoses, suicides and car crashes has led to the idea of a curse entrenching itself in fans’ collective consciousness.

In one sense, there is nothing at all mysterious about these rock and roll deaths. Amy Winehouse was killed by alcohol, Hendrix died of asphyxiation after mixing pills and red wine, and Cobain was in the grip of heroin addiction when he blew himself away with a shotgun.

Given their devil-may-care lifestyles, it comes as little surprise that a 2007 report found pop stars really do die young.

Two years after achieving fame, they are more than twice as likely to go to their graves prematurely as ordinary people in their demographic, said the survey of 1,064 successful musicians by Liverpool's John Moores University.

But what makes 27 such a seemingly common age for rockers to shuffle off to the great gig in the sky?

When people reach their late 20s, they 'start to face a lot more stress with work, starting relationships and pressure from families', says Dr Munidasa Winslow, Adjunct Associate Professor of Psychological Medicine at the National University of Singapore. 'They are also expected to be ‘grown up’ and deal with problems and issues as they come along...not always easy if they have not had good role models.'

Dealing with growing older is hard enough at the best of times, but imagine the havoc it could play with the psyche of a pampered rock star expected to live a life of constant excess while saddled with a fragile self-image based mainly on adulation by strangers. When illegal substances are thrown into the mix, things can get even more chaotic.

'Drugs and alcohol enable artists to live in a fictional world and sometimes they can get trapped in it,”' says Dr Tomas Chamorro-Premuzic, Reader in Psychology at Goldsmiths, University of London.

Perhaps it is this conflict between the pressures of growing up and a desire to cling on to that rebellious, creative edge that drives so many rockers off the rails in their late 20s. Then again, the “curse” could be nothing but a self-fulfilling prophecy.

After Kurt Cobain’s suicide in 1994, his mother Wendy was quoted as saying: 'Now he’s gone and joined that stupid club.' Was the Nirvana frontman consciously following in the footsteps of his tortured rock god idols? We’ll never know, although one thing is for sure. The myth of the 'stupid club' goes back a long way.

First to join was Robert Johnson. The legendary Mississippi bluesman is said to have had his whisky laced with poison by a love rival in 1938. Then, after lying dormant for more than 30 years, the curse apparently re-emerged with a vengeance.

Rolling Stone Brian Jones drowned in his pool in 1969, followed in quick succession by the deaths of guitar hero Hendrix, singer Janis Joplin and The Doors’ drink-addled frontman Jim Morrison, whose girlfriend found him slumped in a Paris bathtub in 1971.

But it was not until after Cobain’s suicide more than 20 years later that the 27 Club captured the public’s imagination, spawning websites and even a book.

What impact could all this death and destruction be having on impressionable fans? 'So many young people aspire to be rock stars, and youths in particular can feel they have a special relationship with the rock star or band that they follow,' says Professor Mark Bellis, who led the 2007 study on musicians’ life expectancies. 'We need to ensure such relationships do not include the promotion of health-damaging lifestyles.'

Of course, for most rational adults, the idea of singers being stalked by a curse is pure fantasy.  Sceptics point out that some of biggest names are conspicuously absent from the club – including King of Rock and Roll Elvis Presley, who left the building at a relatively elderly 42.

Yet too many fans and aspiring stars continue to be seduced by the dangerous myth that drugging yourself into an early grave is somehow glamorous. What they rarely see is the true, sordid picture of physical and moral degradation, grieving families and impressionable youngsters spurred on to throw their own lives away.

In an ideal world, the legend of the 27 Club would serve as a warning to wannabe rock gods. Sadly, however, its ghoulish allure shows no sign of fading.

As fans of Amy Winehouse wait for their tears to dry, we can only grit our teeth and hope she will be the last of the young stars that burn so brightly, only to be snuffed out forever.

But I do know about the educational system.

I used to attend a mission school in Singapore. My parents began homeschooling my sister and me when we relocated to Shanghai in 2003.

When I was in a traditional school, I used to think education was about attending classes and doing well. When I did well, I would get into good schools, which would lead to a good university. After university, I would make mounds of money so that I could live my life out comfortably.

However, homeschooling turned my perception of education upside down. For the first time in my life, education wasn’t about getting the best results or going to the best schools. It was about doing school for the sake of, well, just learning.

In Singapore, I equated learning with school. You learned in the classroom - and only in the classroom. They might take you to a museum to see exhibitions, but the information was not going to help you pass your mid-year exams.

Independent reading didn’t do much good, either. How were the Secret Seven and Charlie Bucket going to help me when teachers wanted to know how much pizza was left after Gopal, Ahmed and Susan ate two-thirds of it (please show your working)? Even those fun science books weren’t any good as there were never going to be questions on velociraptors or great white sharks.

And to me, that was all education really was – preparing for exams and beating the system.

In contrast, homeschooling did away with the walls of the classroom and the requirements of the system. You want to work get good results so that you can attain your high school diploma and go to university, but it’s not the primary focus of education.

DVDs produced by a homeschool company in the States were used in my homeschooling journey. The teachers on the DVDs reiterated that education was truly about shaping who you are as a person.

Through my homeschooling stint, I found that literature helped me to examine moral lessons as well as open my mind up to new ideas. Science and maths trained me to be logical and analytical.

That is really the most important thing I learned in my time outside of the formal educational system: You learn for learning’s sake, to better yourself, to shape yourself as a person and to get yourself to a place where you will have a maximum positive impact on the world.

And isn’t that what matters the most at the end of the day? You can have cars and houses and a nice salary, but regardless of how you were educated, what matters the most is who you are as a person -- what is in your head and heart -- and how people remember you.

Hermione Granger, 11, a first-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had just returned to her dormitory with her friends, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, after accidentally discovering a three-headed dog in an area out of bounds to all students.

To a nine-year-old me then, it seemed that getting expelled would be worse than getting killed.

What would Harry do?

The seven books and eight films of Harry Potter have become a sort of a moral code of conduct for me, teaching me lessons of all sorts.

When I was younger and caught in a moral dilemma, I'd think: 'What would Harry/Ron/Hermione do?'

Once, I realised that I had forgotten to finish a math assignment for school. Immediately, Harry's face swam into my mind, and I imagined him telling me: 'Go on, Ashu. Tell the truth. Ms Tan isn't going to kill you. Courage…'

And then Ron appeared.

'Blimey, Ashu, it's just a math assignment. Copy some kid's homework and save yourself detention.'

And finally, a smug-looking Hermione, arms akimbo.

'Ashu! You're terribly lazy! Watching cartoons instead of doing your math homework.'

Sometimes I'd listen to Harry, but more often than not, I listened to Ron (never Hermione when it came to homework – she was worse than the teachers sometimes). After all, I had a life to lead after school. Who wants to stay back and do problem sums?

Characters

Apart from the three central characters, J K Rowling made sure that everybody else had something to teach you.

Character after character, they were introduced and we were forced to ask ourselves what we thought of people who were different from us.

Hagrid, the half-giant, was intimidating and scary, but he had a heart of gold, didn't he? Nobody could really see him for what he was except for Harry, Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore. This character encouraged you to look beyond what the eye was seeing, right into the inner being. If only people will learn this lesson.

Later in the series, we were introduced to Remus Lupin, a werewolf. He had a condition that affected his health, but that made him no less of a friend, a teacher or a fighter. And yet, parents called for his immediate resignation, terrified that he would infect their children with the 'disease'.

To me, he represents the millions of patients living with HIV/Aids who face a social stigma just because people are afraid to even shake hands with them. So many of them live alone, because they haven't met a Ron, somebody who's willing to befriend them and be there for them, regardless of their condition.

Poor people like the Weasleys – did you look down on them like the Malfoys? Or you we embrace them for who they were and not what they had, like how Harry immediately did?

Conversely, the books made me think of rich people like the Malfoys – did you look up to them just because they had wealth and power, or did you see them for who they were?

One of the characters in the books that touched me was a house elf in a dirty tea cozy. Dobby, the Malfoys' elf who kept their secrets and did all of their dirty work represents, to me, the thousands of maids in Singapore who are deprived of compassion and a simple day off. All Dobby needs to be free is a piece of clothing and all the maids need to be happier is kindness – are you willing to give them that 'piece of clothing'?

Hermione, at 14, set up an organisation to protect the interest of elves, the House-Elf Liberation Front. She rallied support for the elves, collecting donations, making badges and raising awareness for her cause. She is a prime example of a do-er. Why is it so difficult for people at 24, 34 or 44 to stand up for what we believe in?

When I was nine, there was no place I wanted to visit more than Hogwarts. I remember watching the first movie and thinking to myself, 'I still have two years – maybe I'll get the letter and then I can join them in school'.

Ten years later, I'm still waiting for that letter. And I'm also waiting to watch the final film. I haven't quite mustered the courage to do so because watching it would mean that I'd have officially graduated from Harry Potter – and become an adult.

I'm going to go out into the real world, but the question to myself is: Will I apply the lessons that the books and films have taught me?

Only time will tell.

Unless of course, I lay my hands on Hermione's old Time Turner...

Of course, if you were to compare both the actresses, I have to agree that Megan played her role well. But her acting skills were surely honed by her stints in Ocean Avenue, a Swedish-American soap opera, and Confessions  Of A Teenage Drama Queen.

And Rosie? She zipped from a Victoria's Secret catalogue to the silver screen.  It couldn't have been an easy transition - the pitfalls of acting are greater than tripping on the runway or getting sand into her unmentionables in a beach shoot.

I say it is still too early to pass judgment on her acting skills - everybody has to start out somewhere and landing a lead actress role in a summer blockbuster is definitely going to get her somewhere.

Moreover, Megan, as Mikaela, set the bar pretty high. In previous instalments of Transformers, she played a spunky chick who has a record for grand theft auto, rides a bike and fights Decepticons. She enshrined herself as every fanboy’s wet dream.

But somewhere along the way, director Michael Bay must have decided it was time for Sam Witwicky (Shia Lebeouf) to grow up and become a man. If you compare the two actresses and their roles in the franchise, Megan is like Angelina Jolie, the one wearing the pants in the relationship. Rosie plays the exact opposite. She has a certain vulnerability which makes her your nice, sweet trophy girlfriend.
The two actresses are exact opposites of a magnet - and Rosie's role is one Megan would never have been able to pull off.

Just like with Megan in Bay's first two Transformers movies, Rosie's beauty was captured in deliberate slow motion part.

While these moments came across excessive and a ploy to disguise the bad dialogue, they were a good platform for Rosie to further affirm her worth as a model - she looked so good in front of the camera. 
Whatever she lacked in acting talent, she made up for with her beauty.

So it's like this: I entered the cinemas expecting to be let down by Rosie's performance. Instead, I emerged a Rosie Huntington-Whiteley convert - and a leg guy.

Awesome gams aside, I believe that given time, she will make an outstanding actress. Let's wait and see.

When once we would have been lucky to catch the occasional major pop act, a variety of events have now begun cropping up to cater to varied, niche tastes.

Yet, with the decent spread of music acts as well as lower ticket prices for some acts, I’m sure there’s going to be some first-time concert-goers out there.

If you’re one of them (it’s okay, I won’t tell), this guide is for you.

I’m not going to lie, I’m biased. I’ve been a closet rocker since I was a kid, back when my dad would play The Scorpions and Black Sabbath on his home stereo so loudly you couldn’t hear the neighbours complain (He just plays Coldplay now. He’s mellowed).

At any rate, my advice is probably going to be geared towards the people who like it fast and preferably loud enough that they can sing along without anyone overhearing their getting the lyrics wrong.

With Iron Maiden and Big Night Out featuring Slash - of Guns N Roses fame - and the Stone Temple Pilots, all in the first few months of the year, 2011 looks to be a fantastic year for the metalhead.

MISSING THE FESTIVAL ATMOSPHERE

The next major event, though, would have to be the upcoming Laneway Festival on Jan 29, which is making its first appearance in Singapore.

Traditionally a mainstay of the Australian music scene, the festival features raved-about indie darlings like alternative dance group Foals, shoegaze duo Beach House and self-styled ‘ambient punk’ group Deerhunter.

Laneway is a whole-day affair, but for the price of one ticket, you get to watch nine bands over 10 hours of performances. While it may not feature the most well-known bands in this neck of the woods, any one of these acts would be worth the price of admission by themselves.

I’m hoping that the Laneway festival is exactly what the Singapore music scene needs to evolve and expand.

You see, ever since my wife and I went for Glastonbury in 2010 for our honeymoon, I’ve been missing the 'done-in-one' festival atmosphere.

Festivals: Where wild meets whimsy. -- PHOTO: LAI HAN-WEI

Don’t get me wrong, I love Mosaic and Baybeats, but there’s nothing quite like trekking from one end of the festival ground to the other to catch an act before they finish, or wandering lazily around, poking around the stalls fellow festival-goers had set up.

Sometimes, you’d completely lose track of time, only to realise you’ve almost missed the act you’d been waiting months to see - but that was still okay. The sheer freedom was intoxicating.

However, at Glastonbury, we camped out for several nights, so we had to prepare for the outdoors.

Our tent was somewhere in that big mess of tents. -- PHOTO: LAI HAN-WEI

The fact that you can't exactly go home for the night and come back the next day, means you have to go prepared.

Even though it’s over in one day, you can still make some preparations to make sure your festival experience goes as well as it can possibly can.

PREPARING FOR LANEWAY FESTIVAL

First off, be prepared - rain or shine. Judging by how the weather’s going in Singapore lately this January, I wouldn’t be counting on getting a suntan.

Make sure you have a pair of waterproof boots, or failing that, some sort of waterproof footwear for if (or when, depending on how cynical you are) it starts to rain.

Since the Laneway Festival is at Fort Canning, the slightest bit of rain turns the whole place into a mudfest - and it's not the best thing to go squelching around in for half the day. Especially if you’re wearing a nice pair of shoes.

If by some stroke of luck, it’s sunny, a hat would help make sure you don’t wince in pain from sunburns the next day. Don’t underestimate how long you’ll be under the sun. On that note, sunblock may help too.

A mat is definitely recommended for when you want to sit on the grass, because you’re not going to be standing all day, are you? It doesn’t matter if you have knees of steel, you’re going to feel it at the end of the day.

Having somewhere to sit and get comfy is definitely a plus. -- ST PHOTO: LAI HAN-WEI

Bottled water and some food is also a must - it’s not very glam, but it’s easy to forget the importance of hydration.

Also, not having to buy food and drink at overpriced booths is a plus. And hey, isn’t being thrifty the Singaporean way?

Most importantly, the best thing to bring to Laneway is your sense of adventure. If you’ve taken the step to actually buy the tickets and head down to Fort Canning on Jan 29, why not make the most of it while you’re there?

Everyone’s entitled to some griping now and then, but try to keep an open mind - being out of your comfort zone is all part of the experience.

The Polo in particular has done particularly well as seen by the little hatchback's proliferation on our roads. The 'mini-me' Golf styling, solid build quality and affordable pricing have all contributed to its strong sales performance.

Looks

- The Volkswagen Polo Sport looks like a Golf has been shrunk in the car wash, but that is no bad thing as it is a handsome-looking car.

- Little differentiates it from the base 1.4-litre variant, with the exception of front fog lamps and larger 16-inch alloy wheels.

Performance

- Acceleration is good for a car with a 1.2-litre 8-valve engine thanks to a turbocharger. This unit is shared with the base Golf and Skoda Fabia.

- The 1.2-litre powerplant makes a respectable 105bhp and 175Nm. It is smooth, free-revving and quiet. These figures are comparable to normally aspirated 1.6-litre engines found in garden variety family sedans such as the Chevrolet Cruze.

- Fuel economy was good at an average of 15.6km/l during the time of ST Online's test and with the small engine size, the yearly road tax payable is a pretty small figure too.

- The seven-speed DSG gearbox is quick and decisive with its shifts, but is jerky at low-speeds, a common complaint about this gearbox.

Ride and Handling

- It feels like a much larger car in the way it drives. The ride is smooth and the suspension shrugs off road imperfections with little fuss.

- It is a tidy handler through the corners and body roll is well controlled.

- The electro-hydraulic steering rack is well-weighted and offers decent feedback through the helm.

Comfort, Practicality and Quality

- The Polo's cabin quality shames cars that are bigger and more expensive and the materials used are nicely textured.

- It is extremely roomy and space in the back is very good for a car of its size.

- The boot is well-shaped with minimal intrusions and practicality is aided by a split-folding 60:40 rear seat back.

Verdict

The Polo is a very accomplished little car offering Golf-like looks and quality in a very appealing package but...

Pluses

- Handsome looks
- Impeccable build quality
- Good fuel efficiency

Minus

- Manual air-con controls

Specifications

Engine: 1,190cc, 8-valves, inline-4
Max Power: 105bhp at 5,000rpm
Max Torque: 175Nm at 1,550-4,100rpm
Gearbox: 7-speed dual-clutch
0-100kmh: 6.8 seconds
Top Speed: 190kmh
Consumption: 18.9km/L (combined)

The show opens with the Triassic Period and the first dinosaurs the audience encounters are little baby dinosaurs, followed by the sneaky Liliensternus. The audience travels forward to the Jurassic and Cretaceous Periods, meeting 20 dinosaurs along the way.

The show ends with a massive confrontation between a Torosaurus, Ankylosaurus and a mother Tyrannosaurus Rex defending her mischievous baby.

However, it is literally walking with dinosaurs. One should not expect a savage fight between the ancient creatures, owing to the costly design of the suits. Instead the dinosaurs sway around the stage, roaring menancingly at each other.

The script, jammed-packed with information, conveyed to the audience through a paleontologistic medium christened Huxley, aimed at enriching its guests with bits of trivia about the different periods, the dinosaurs and even the demise of the dinosaurs, which was credited to a comet that struck the Gulf of Mexico.

The character Huxley was loosely modelled after the famed biologist and Darwin supporter Thomas Huxley.

There was one line in the first act that caught my attention, and was mentioned in conjunction with the changing nature of the earth and dinosaurs were the words “built on a great design”. Was the evolution versus intelligent design theory debate slowly creeping into the plot?

When asked, Associate Director Cameron Wenn, said that the phrase was used “poetically” and had no reference to the notion of intelligent design.

If it was, it would be ironic, considering that the real Thomas Huxley did not support the idea of intelligent design.

The show's use of advanced animatronics was definitely its best selling-point. Instead of the mechanised jerky movements animatronics previously offered, these dinosaurs move with effortless fluidity.

While the smaller dinosaurs, manoevred by actors in the suit, showcased the sleek agility of the design, it was the larger dinosaurs that impressed. Thanks to its sheer sized, the audience could actually see the massive Tyrannosaurus Rex heaving, muscles twitching as she strides forward to protect her young.

Even though it was a tad bit difficult to avert your gaze from the wheels that supported the large dinosaurs, like the Brachiosaurus and Stegosaurus, one could not help but be mesmerised by the elegant fluidity of movement the animatronics team managed to capture with their designs.

When asked if he was planning the addition of new dinosaurs to the show, Mr Wenn said no but they had modified the script to keep the show scientifically up-to-date.

Head of Creatures Michael Hamilton said that during the course of their American tour, it was discovered that their depiction of the Stegosaurus was not accurate.

Mr Hamilton said they had been operating under the assumption that the Stegosaurus would “pump blood into their plates” and this had been incorporated into the plot, and had to be removed when it was later revealed that such an action “was not physically possible”.

Overall, I found it to be quite entertaining. I can see the show appealing to a broad range of people, as long as they are willing to overlook the current technological limitations, such as the wheels fixed at the bottom of the larger dinosaurs which does distract and ruin the magic quite a bit. Although at times the cacophony caused by background music mashed together with Huxley's narration served no other function but to annoy.

It did seem like the show was trying to impress with scientific facts and figures, but unlike the BBC documentary which laid out its information in a neat and cohesive manner, the stage production attempted to condense as much trivia as possible into 80-minutes show-time.

With the lead actor competing with the background music for supremacy, it was easy to miss some of the interesting facts the show had to offer.

Perhaps my expectations were raised too high, but I felt that all in all, Walking with Dinosaurs was meant to entertain rather than educate.