I’ve moved. Not far. As you, dear reader, will know, I am a settler not a traveller, a creature of habit, a lover of comfort zones.
Not for me the ‘let’s hire a bike and see the island’, or ‘let’s go check out the Full Moon party’.
It all sounds far too energetic. Why would I want to break a limb or have my stomach pumped?
I see the results of ‘let’s hire a motorbike’ every day hobbling along the beach complete with plaster casts, ensuring a very uneven tan to go with the ‘when I was in Thailand’ stories, on return to their homelands.
As for the parties – 10, 000, club 18-30’s (more 18’s than 30’s), throwing up? Vomit is not even slightly attractive and as far as I am concerned ‘sex on the beach’ should be restricted to cocktails.
‘Why go to Thailand to write then? “ I hear you ask, “if you’re just going to stay in one place?”
Look, I can see the island from my balcony, well some of it, and one bit of rain forest looks pretty much like another. The same could be said for beaches and my new bit of beach comes with an enchanting Thai family who feed me, pamper me and share their lives with me.
I liked my little room, apart from the rude staff, the horrible smell and the distinct lack of hygiene when it came to the cleaning process.
I liked the battle scarred dog who adopted me, slept outside my room, made sure I was ‘home safe’ and who fights with every other four legged creature on the island. ‘Dog’ is the best name I could come up with; he has few attractive features.
So I move– upstairs. It seems my room by the pool has been pre-booked for Christmas. I suspect my boycotting their bass booming, poor quality restaurant in retaliation to their outright hostility might be closer to the truth.
Anyhow I’ve moved. My battle scarred, flea bitten dog whimpered a bit as I dragged my case the 30 yards to my new home but stayed on my old verandah. He is obviously a fickle ‘room’ dog. I think I’m going to miss him.
Surprisingly, I prefer my new home. The smell has gone, the shower is almost a power shower as opposed to a reluctant trickle, and it’s far quieter.
No longer am I woken by the early morning sweeping of leaves or the revving of motor bikes as the staff arrive. I have a wonderful view of the mountain and no neighbours.
Of course there is always a downside. This time it’s the mirror. No, not a ‘fat’ mirror, but rather an extremely skinny one.
“But you said you hated ‘fat’ mirrors” you challenge.
It’s true, generally I do, but fat mirrors have one major advantage. You look in a ‘fat’ mirror and eat and drink less in the vain hope that one morning you will see the sylph like form of yesteryear when you look in the glass.
Skinny mirrors are guaranteed to make the jeans you came out in shrink two sizes by the time you have to pour yourself into them for the return leg.
Aware of the pitfalls of the skinny mirror, I have decided to change my eating habits. Not for me the 2 pre-dinner Mai Thai’s or the 3 glasses of wine that generally wash down the green curry. No now that I have to go up and down stairs to the beach or pool (all good exercise), I will resist all fattening temptations and stick to water and salad until my anorexic self beams back at me.
An evening with friends, one Mai Thai, 2 glasses of wine, a not to be denied craving for spag bol later (diets have to be embarked upon with due caution), I pass my old room and climb the stairs to my new home.
There lying on my new doormat, lazily wagging his tail is – Dog, my beautiful bolshy friend.