Things have been very strange lately and it's your fault.
The New Paper's readers seem to be ganging up on me in the last few weeks in a rather pleasant, but slightly unnerving, stalking kind of way.
Recently, I was on a bus from Mountbatten Road to Orchard Road. For 45 minutes, I was seated beside a chap who kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking.
If I peered across at him, he yanked his head away so violently I thought it might come off.
Finally, I got up from my window seat, said "excuse me" and waited for him to do that bizarre leg-twisting thing that is unique to Singapore - where we spin our legs to the left but continue to sit bolt upright and look straight ahead as if our upper bodies are nailed to the seat.
"Thank you," I said, admiring his leg-twisting thing like he was performing a scene from Riverdance.
And he smiled and replied: "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Humphreys."
But we hadn't met. We hadn't said a word to each other.
He had just sat beside me in silence, staring at the side of my face for so long I expected him to pull on a pair of surgical gloves, switch on a pocket torch and say: "Yes, Mr Humphreys this is the worst case of ear wax I've ever seen. I don't know if I should use a syringe or a hose pipe."
But the sly smile and phrase had me giggling for days. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Humphreys. He sounded like a James Bond villain. All that was missing was a botak head and a white cat.
I was rather disappointed when he didn't eject himself from the bus via an escape pod. Still, at least he remembered my name.
I was shopping in Mustafa on Tuesday, partly for the ever-expanding range of goods, but mostly for the comedy. I like to amuse myself by approaching staff and enquiring about made-up stuff.
"Excuse me," I say cheerily, "do you have a replacement nozzle for a Nasa Space Shuttle?"
And it usually is. The beauty of Mustafa is not only will the third floor contain a box of replacement nozzles for Nasa space shuttles, but they'll be placed beside bunches of plastic flowers, universal remote controls and a plumber's stopcock.
But as I pushed my remote controls and plastic flowers to one side in the trolley to make room for the stopcock, a gentleman stopped me in the aisle.
"You're the ang moh," he said.
Sherlock Holmes has nothing on this guy.
"I am indeed," I replied. "How did you guess?"
"No, it's you, right? You're the ang moh in Singapore."
I had heard a rumour that there were two of us briefly, but then Anton Casey cleared off to Perth and left me all alone.
"But I don't know your name," my new friend continued excitedly. "Tell me your name and I'll know if I'm right."
In these situations, the temptation is always to say: "Yeah, it's Peter Crouch. I don't expect to make England's World Cup squad, so I came to Singapore instead."
But I sheepishly mumbled my name and he shouted: "Humphreys! Yes! Humphreys! Yes!"
It all sounded rather erotic. Other shoppers wondered if we needed to get a room.
At least he offered an indication of his thought process. A dapper uncle at Cold Storage didn't even bother with small talk. He just took my hand, shook it vigorously and said: "I like you."
I was nervous. I'm not used to men shaking parts of my body whilst whispering "I like you".