London, it's the new Phnom Penh!

I knew something was odd as soon as we landed in London.

It wasn’t just the tropical heat, or even the unusual scent of jasmine. It certainly wasn’t that it took hours for my bag to arrive. It was more basic than that: with no trains or busses - or even black cabs - how was I to get into town?

Then I noticed a group lolling in hammocks and playing chess, under a handpainted ‘Tower Tuktuks’ sign. These were no chirpy cockney cabbies, but a bunch of itinerant Yorkshiremen, come to the big city to drive their battered British Leyland tuktuks.

“Where yer go?” an old guy asked sleepily.

“St Paul’s Pagoda”. I felt I should explain: “To the new exhibition at the Tate T’mai”.

A friendly shrug and we set off. We circled the airport twice before I realized the poor bloke had no idea where he was going. “Just follow the Tonle Thames uncle” I growled.

We chugged along the riverbank with its colourful tourist dragonboats, past the sparkling new Cambodia-Britain friendship hospital at Hammersmith and the Cameron Academy at Chelsea.

Suddenly a monstrous black machine roared past us, forcing us towards the ditch. “Lewisham Lexus lout!” cursed my driver.

At the corner of the Royal Palace a uniformed man with a black breast-shaped helmet stood in the road. It was reassuring to see a friendly London bobby, even with a cigarette on his lip and shirt rolled up exposing his belly.

“Road closed brother” the policeman barked. “MyBoy London Marathon today!”. To my astonishment my driver nonchalantly slipped a dollar bill into the officer’s outstretched palm, and drove on. Surely there isn't now corruption in Her Majesty’s Constabulary?

To recover I asked him to stop for food. Sadly my favorite chip shop at Phsar Covent had developed an unpleasant fish-sauce stink, and a pack of skinny dogs lurked menacingly outside Khmer Fried Chicken. So I went round the corner to Pret a Mango for comfort food - what wonderful sweet sticky rice they now serve!

Finally we reached the pagoda and I thrust a few dollars at my grateful driver. The South Bank was as vibrant as ever, with stalls of pirate DVDs jostling for custom with “”Same Same” t-shirt vendors, tastefully accompanied by the latest asiapop from huge sound systems.

Outside the Tate, gallery staff played volleyball, resulting in an unruly scrum for tickets within. In fairness demand was high: they were cheap thanks to cultural development aid from Cambodia. And the subject was popular – the public gazed adoringly at the beautiful mountain of plastic bags which engulfed the turbine hall.

I soon retired to the Apsara Arms for a litre of imported Kingdom Ale. What a day! This was still the same London, but it was also now so different.

As I swatted half heartedly at mosquitoes and idly pushed icecubes round my glass, I finally realized what was so surprising about all this.

It wasn’t so much that London had suddenly become like Phnom Penh.

It was simply that everyone had started smiling!