The Ramblings of Boots

They are absolutely classless. They don’t care who they attack and their bites are a great leveller. Not even the young fit and gym toned look that attractive with a colony of red lumps on their back.

As I walk down the beach in the morning acutely aware that I am older than anyone on it (by at least 3 decades) the site of these red mountains affords me a small sense of justice; even the rich Russians on the other side of the island will be suffering from red blob disease.

After eight days of torrential downpours, I suspect even the most loved up of couples might be getting just a tad grumpy about the weather. I mean if you go to paradise for your honeymoon it’s sort of obligatory to arrive back in Blighty with a tan. I suppose they could coyly put it’s absence down to ‘not leaving the bedroom’ and blush a lot, but who will believe that? They’ve spent a fortune on these two weeks, they want something to show for it and, no, her spreading waistline next May is not compensation enough.

Not that I am, grumpy about the weather, not too grumpy anyway. I knew November was the second wettest month on the island, I’d done my research. A note to future Honeymooners, Luxor and Mauritius are your best bets for a hot DRY honeymoon in November. Forget the Caribbean, forget Thailand, forget just about everywhere else unless you like to gamble. The gods relieve themselves in abundance all over planet earth in November and a good deal of their waste ends up on a small island called Koh Phangan.

Asides from the weather It’s been a bumpy two days. On one hand the mosquitos, who are singularly odd in their fondness of the rain, and on the other It seems my wonderful all inclusive deal is not as all inclusive as advertised and I now find myself having to purchase breakfast AND my room clean. They may be Buddhists these Thai’s but the Money God still rules supreme. Actually I was getting a little egg bound so am not too upset about losing the omelette, and the walk down the river (I think it was a road a week ago) to the 7/11 for yoghurt and fruit is probably far better for me. The room clean seems bizarre. It seems that the management believe ‘long termers’ like to clean their own rooms. Do I fuck?! After a bit of haggling to soothe the Money God, the room clean is back on.

In fairness, I have moved from the hillside bungalow to a villa just next to the infinity pool and 50 yards from the beach, and I suspect that this is an upgrade, so I shouldn’t really complain.

Why would you build an infinity pool facing a concrete wall? The bit that isn’t infinite has steps leading up to the villas and a rather sweet Buddhist garden, the bit that is, infinity that is, faces a concrete wall and a tiny path that separates our little village of ‘villas’ from the next little village of ‘villas’. Perhaps they don’t make non infinity pools any more.

The rain has given me the opportunity to read – a lot. 4 books in fact. Blue Gold – Clive Cussler (not his best), The Night Circus – Erin Morgenstern (an intriguing first novel), The Angel of Grozny – Asne Seierstad (compelling), and Unbroken – Laura Hillenbrand (this one made me realises that a room clean was not that big a deal).

Added to that I have worked every other day on writing projects (the blog doesn’t count), swum for at least half an hour each day, discovered I can listen to play of the week on radio 4, played scrabble and words with friends; in fact not so different from how I fill my days back home except here I have the air con on not the heating.

A break in the God’s relieving themselves allows an hour or so of lying on the beach. Slathering factor 30 on top of my eau de mosquito repellent, I watch as the leather turns its first shade of pink and…they’re back. The white spots are back. Joy!

Thankfully the pharmacy is just down the river so a quick wade down the river/road later and after much discussion with the pharmacist  as to whether it is a fungus or not, I wade back upstream clutching a tube of ointment covered in hieroglyphics.

Completely off topic, I was going to ask ‘she who must be obeyed’ to open my Amazon delivery and bring out the replacement bottle of D&G Red I ordered.

Hmmm mosquito repellent, factor 30, fungus ointment AND Dolce and Gabbana? Why  not!

I meet Enya sometime during a breakfast.

I remember –  I was writing. For the first time since my arrival I was properly writing. Well ‘rewriting’ to be exact, but focussed, full of energy and in need of neither company nor conversation.

“Excuse me. Do you av the cod”

A ‘why would I want fish and chips for breakfast?’ thought, enters unbidden, as I look up and see a tall, painfully thin (some would say, slim – in my book painfully thin), woman with almost shoulder length, almost straight dark hair and dark eyes, smiling politely. The look says Spanish, the accent – German.

A light bulb moment as I realise she has seen me on the computer and ‘cod’ means ‘code’.

‘It doesn’t work here, well it does sometimes, but the box is too far away.’

She looks a little hurt as if I am keeping the ‘cod’ a secret.

‘I am writing’ I explain. ‘Not on the internet’.

“Ah, OK, thank you”.

I probably should have engaged in conversation then. Breakfast is ‘my’ time. I love breakfast. I am usually the only one here. Ham brings me my vegetable omelette, disgusting tea and plate piled high with fruit. Ham’s daughter, Lucky, the two year old flame thrower, clambers onto the chair next to me to share my fruit and watches happily and in silence as I bang the keys, occasionally asking for her face to be wiped clean of the pineapple juice dribbling down her chin, with much movement of tiny arms. She can juggle with fire but can’t wipe her face?

The owner told Ham on day 3 that I was not entitled to both an omelette AND fruit in my ‘long term room deal’ breakfast and Ham presented me with the new long term menu. I quietly insisted on speaking to him – the owner that is.

I am now – entitled to it – the breakfast that is.

Most of the people who come at this time of year come for the full moon/halfmoon/jungle parties and are incapable of making the 10.30 am breakfast deadline, he’s coining it in and he knows it. I’m old and a little wiser – he knows that now too.

I remember saying when the rain poured down on summer days in Blighty:

‘This is monsoon weather’.

It isn’t.

I am sitting in monsoon weather this morning. Sheets of water pouring down from a still sky like bolts of sheer material with weights at the bottom being dropped from a tall building. Out at sea visibility is down to a few metres, lightning illuminates the horizon and thunder rumbles. If I were here for a two week break, I would be somewhat disappointed but knowing I have months of sunshine to come, I love this rain, its strength, its attitude.

Back to Enya – now where did that leap come from?

Sometime in the afternoon of the breakfast day we met, I am lying on a wooden, Thai style sun lounger, trying to burn evenly while finishing ‘Frank’s Wild Years’ by Nick Triplow – a somewhat sad but lovely little book about the underlife in South East london whose characters reminded me vividly of the many people I knew in that area in the 70’s.

Enya comes over and says “Hello, we meet again”.

We talk.

Enya is from the Basque country but has lived in Berlin for 20 years. She is the wrong side of 45 but looks much younger, a photographer who has spent the last 7 winters in Thailand and was married to a German. She has a huge spanish family with many nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles and cousins but no children. She visits her family at least twice a year. She speaks with a spanish passion and germanic ferocity. There is something haunting or maybe ‘haunted’ about her.

I tell her I am here to write and because I hate the English winters.

“Oh yes, they are bullshit!”

Well that’s one word for it, Enya, ‘Cold’ could possibly be another?

She talks about her photography. She is to have an exhibition of her photos in Las Vegas next year. She spent one night in the favelas of Buenos Aires and the photos are a result. The exhibition is to be entitled ‘One night in the favelas of Buenos Aires’ – I thought perhaps ‘One night’ might have been more snappy but refrained from suggesting it.

I ask if she uses film or digital photography. She looks at me scathingly. She uses film, she is an artist. Everyone in Berlin is an artist, except the bourgeois middle class. Berlin is becoming far too bourgeois middle class – but it is cheap. Her apartment is only £300 a month.

Didn’t the environmental pollution caused by film processing worry her? (The footage of kilometres of wasteland in eastern Europe caused by film processing I saw on a documentary some years ago, ended my use of film forever).

Enya explodes. Capitalistic states! Banks! Motor Cars! More ‘Bullshit!’ The tirade lasts a good three minutes and ends with:

“We are not going to discuss it! We are not going to argue!”

Not quite comprehending how you can embrace a long haul flight from Berlin but believe no one should have a motor car in the ‘fighting world pollution stakes’ but more than happy not to argue, I ask her about her future plans.

She is working on a new ‘theme’.

“I am always looking for teems”. Her spanish hands talking as rapidly as her clipped speech.

This one is entitled ‘Waiting for lunch’ but is far more conceptual – I had mentioned that Christo was my favourite conceptual artist and this met with a modicum of approval.

“It could be waiting for love, waiting for freedom, waiting for fortune – you see – conceptual!”

I was quite happy with the ‘waiting for lunch’ theme, thinking a photo of some overpaid A list celebrity in Claridges in juxtaposition with lions in the jungle or children in Ethiopia quite a big enough ‘theme’ – I am patently not an ‘artist’.

“And you? What do you write about?”

Knowing that my small story is not in the same league as nights in favelas or starving children, I mumble that the screenplay I am working on is about 4 female pensioners who go on a sort of road trip and find themselves – it sounds, even to me, extremely middle class and bourgeois – Hang on! I am middle class and bourgeois and there are an awful lot of us out there!

Surprisingly she likes the idea – a lot.

I tell her briefly about my life. When I reach the bit about my husband dying she suddenly interrupts

“Mine died too; 5 years ago”.

That’s where the haunted look comes from – there’s the simpatico.

It seems they were both into parties and drugs and alcohol and being different. So they joined the ‘different’ clan spending time in squats and communes, hiding under the duvet of ‘artistic’; determined to live a hedonistic, bohemian life.

She grew tired of it pulled herself away and left him; choosing rather to focuss on her photography.

He didn’t make it. His body wrecked with years of abuse; a heart attack the final insult.

She has been coming back to thailand every winter since he died.

It’s that book and cover thing again.

I think perhaps that Enya is waiting for lunch.

Day 3 (days will soon lose their numbers) and I missed breakfast , completely missed it. Didn’t even wake up until 11.

It could have been the familiar sound of rain falling that kept me asleep, or the lack of bird song.

15 minutes for the shower to run hot, I like the fact it’s not in a hurry, I like the fact that nothing is in a hurry.

Ham agrees to cook me breakfast at midday, I will have to pay as I have missed the official breakfast time, but at 60p for an omelette I think I can live with that.

I text Nute to say that perhaps today is not the best day for car viewing. Her Liverpudlian boyfriend calls me back. They have a power cut on the south of the island and Nute will collect me tomorrow, if that’s ok?

That’s fine.

Man child calls and asks if I would like dinner at Fisherman’s ( in his words ‘the best fish restaurant on the island’) tonight? sounds good.

Clothes to the laundry, walk to the shop for water, walk to the dive school for fins. (Perhaps cover 300 yards there and back) Nick, the possibly swedish, possibly german owner tells me they have none in my size. He phones his wife (Patsy) who is in Thong Sala and asks her to bring a pair back. They will be here tomorrow or the next day.

I tell him there is no hurry, it’s hardly snorkelling weather today.
I’m wrong says Nick, it’s very good snorkelling weather today, there is a clear patch to the right of the bay and the snorkelling has been superb this morning.

Go to the clothes shop and optimistically buy a pink bikini. The optimism having nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the size of the bikini. The girls in the shop, who giggle a lot, seem to find me a source of amusement and have already promised to cook for me, are lovely and tell me if it doesn’t fit I can change it. It doesn’t.
I do, change it that is, the next day for another that still barely fits and a pair of fisherman’s trousers.

An afternoon with the Angel of Grozny reminds me of how lucky I am, how lucky even Ham is, despite having to work long hours to provide for his family.

The rain stops mid afternoon but there is still cloud cover. I lie in the warm, feeling the pain of the Chechens through 2 wars and bitterly cold winters on the Russian steppes. The loss of family, the torture, the grief.

I call Man child; suddenly I need to know he is safe. He laughs gently. He is safe. Will I be able to make my own way to Fisherman’s?

Of course. I’m a grown up.

I check the internet to make sure that ‘She who must be obeyed’ is safe. There is a message. She is. She hopes that Thai Team are doing well, I reply and say we are and I hope the Europe Team are in good spirits.

Later Ham finds me a taxi and feeling quite proud of myself, not only for going out after dark, but for going on my own, I savour the ride over the hills, the sound of the bullfrogs, nosier than a herd of cows in a Somerset field, the swerving to miss the kamikaze dogs darting in front of the taxi, the lights on the sex strip, the smells of the food market in Thong Sala. I wave to Mahlee standing outside her caff and finally we arrive at Fisherman’s.

I see the sign, no, not Fisherman’s – DENTIST. Right opposite the restaurant. YES! I thought it would take me weeks and a good half dozen Thai lessons to find someone who could keep my teeth in order and here; karma, is the answer to my prayers.

It was without doubt the best Barracuda I have ever tasted and easily one of the best fish. The three sauces it came with were delicious and delicacy personified. The restaurant is owned by a Burmese family and is one of the busiest on the island, so popular that they are relocating to larger premises soon (Nute tells me this tomorrow). It is next to the sea and you can even sit at tables in a boat moored alongside. Man child and I have a good evening.

Tomorrow is hectic, by island standards. I cover myself in factor 30 – How come I got burnt yesterday? There was no sun. Leave key in reception so room can be cleaned, breakfast, rush to the shop to change bikini, call from Nick – my fins have arrived. Walk to dive school, meet Patsy, Nick’s wife, who comes from Liverpool. She tells me they spent 5 years in Egypt and have been on Phangan for 2, preferring the more leisurely pace of Thailand (and I suspect the currently more stable political situation). I tell her I am here for a while and she invites me to come back and spend time with her when I am less busy.

Call from Nute, she is coming to collect me to see car. Call from Man child, he is training and will come up after. No time to read. Half hour doing laps in the pool (I was right, I do have it all to myself), quick shower – well quick as shower will allow.

Man child arrives, he decided to skip training. Nute arrives in the prettiest white sun dress which now makes her look 12. Her beautiful pregnant daughter is with her and after the obligatory ‘polite’ introductions the four of us head to Ban Tai to check out cars. Nute and I in the front, Nie (her daughter) insisting, despite being pregnant and my protestations, that she sits in the back, and Man child following on his bike; I’ve stopped looking to check whether his helmet is on.

Nute is keen to improve her English pronunciation and asks me to help. By the time we get to Ban Tai, she can easily say ‘very’, no longer ‘velly’ and I am happily telling her that my friend is coming out in ‘Feblulally’ – not sure I’m winning here but there is much laughter.

Man child decides cars are ‘Peng’ (too expensive) and as I don’t really need one until ‘Feblulally’ when it is low season – we should renegotiate then. Everyone is happy with this and we drop down to the local beach to see how it compares to Haad Yao before heading back to Mahlee’s for dinner. I prefer Haad Yao.

Mahlee’s brother is still proudly holding his Man Hunt pen and a fresh, tattooed, Glastonbury, united nations contingency are already seated. One of them knows Man child so high fives follow.

I am not sure quite how much alcohol or how many drugs are consumed in this paradise but Mahlee fails to recognise Nute, despite berating me two days earlier for being unwilling to go in her van. She does confess to having drunk 4 beers before we arrived and, in all fairness, says Nute, Mahlee has only ever seen her in her work clothes, jeans and a shirt, until now.

Mahlee produces more fabulous food, vegetables and chicken with fluffy white rice, and Mark, Nute’s Liverpudlian boyfriend, arrives. My jury is still out on him. He talks non stop as if on speed and most of it is rubbish, I think she can do better and suspect that a couple of decades of drugs and alcohol have taken their toll. I watch this confident woman with her own successful business lower herself in status as her Farang gets noisier and more strident with every sip of beer. It is sad that Thai women are brought up to believe that catching a Farang is the way to a better life.

After dinner we go our separate ways. Nute and Nie take me home. Mark makes a big deal about pregnant Nei going in the back (perhaps he isn’t so bad, I do agree with him on that), Man child heads south and the tattooed, Glastonbury, united nations contingency take themselves off to the next all night party.

Nute suggests that we meet up next week and she, Nei and I go into town and have a ‘girlie’ morning. She will show me a good nail parlour and the best shops and will introduce me to the shopkeepers so I am not charged Farang prices. I offer to help her with the recycling in return. 

” Your son will keel me” she laughs. “You teach me Eeenglish”.

I was serious.

How much you can  do in a day.

Discovering the shower is not hot, functional but currently not hot (Ham resolves that minor problem later), deciding that three day old, curling, stuck to the head hair is perfectly acceptable, and a quick cold wash later, I start my new regime.

First an exploration of the beach. Note: ‘exploration’, I’m working my way up to a morning run – it could take several months.

Passing two massage and nail parlours (those of you who have been to Thailand will instantly remember their sophistication), I find myself at the four star hotel that looked so glamourous last night with its fairy lights twinkling. It is still pretty splendid even in daylight, but it has little or no beach, a sense of ‘you could be anywhere’ and quite frankly, (I allow myself a little smirk) not nearly as charming as my home.

Paddling through the warm ‘tallay’, that’s ‘sea’ – 24 hours and my Thai has improved 300% – not difficult when my prior vocabulary consisted of ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you’, I pass more ‘beauty’ parlours, a dive school, a couple of resorts (more little smirks) and finally return to my shabby chic piece of heaven for breakfast.

The tea is dreadful, I had forgotten just how dreadful. The coffee not much better but the fluffy omelette and plate piled high with chunks of water melon, pineapple and bananas, sublime.

Man child arrives at about midday and we set off to town. Me in a tuk tuk, he on his motor bike following, helmet thrown carelessly over the handle bars…useful.

Town is town. Tired backpackers with pre half moon party hangovers, a glorious food market full of smells that cannot be replicated in colder climes, shops stuffed with cheap, bright clothes – all in Kate Moss size so no hope of anything fitting, and Man child wouldn’t let me buy the ‘fins’ I spied at £17.

“Far too expensive! We’ll get some at the dive school.”

Everyone is on motorbikes. Babies are on motorbikes, Grannies older than me are on motorbikes, I am beginning to feel like a western wuss so when Man child suggests we go to Mahlee’s (a friend of his) restaurant for lunch and I go on the back of his motor bike…

“You can wear the helmet, Mum”…

….I reluctantly acquiesce.

The journey on the flat is about 15 minutes. How many ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck’s! Can you fit into 15 minutes?

I probably hit the thousand.

“Oh fuck! I’m on a motorbike!”

We pass the small strip devoted to sex tourism. Phangan is a twice a month party island and aside from that just sleepy though not nearly as sleazy as Phuket. I suspect sex tourism will increase as the back packers move on to new territories but for now it is confined to maybe half a dozen “Massage Parlours” (not the same as the ones on the beach, which really do do massages), with pretty bored Thai girls pampering each other as there is little trade at lunchtime.

A massive black cloud ahead of us and the race is on to get to Mahlee’s before it bursts.

“It’s only a shower, Mum”.

Doesn’t look like a shower to me, looks like a full on tsunami!

We just make it as the heavens open.

Mahlee’s restaurant consists of maybe 4 tables, more caff than cafe. A laundry on one side and a ‘rent a motor bike’ shop on the other.

She is furious with Man child. Phangan it seems is smaller than Molesey when it comes to knowing who is doing what. A friend of hers saw Man child passing yesterday and he didn’t stop to say ‘hello’.

“Why you not say ‘Hello’, yesterday, Ardee?” You are no friend! Who is thees? Your friend?” She spits the word ‘friend’ out with venom and flashes her dark eyes at me.

Mahlee is 50 and makes me feel like a cross between Methuselah and Gulliver. She is tiny, bird like and youthfully pretty; her thighs slimmer than my arms. I feel like an elephant. She also obviously adores Man child and having discovered I am not his ‘friend’ proceeds to flirt outrageously with him, telling ‘Mamma’ that he is good ‘Farang’, showing me with pride the menus that Man child has made for her, thanking him for the loan he gave her to pay her rent, insisting she cooks the fresh prawns that have just been delivered, and that we share a beer.

She decides I am OK. I am open. I have good heart.

We eat. One dish at a time. Mine first. Mahlee is chef, Maitre D, and washer upper, there is no chance all our dishes will arrive at the same time. It is a hard life – her life. She has no family, except her ‘lady boy’ (her words) brother on Phangan. What is left of her family lives on Koh Tao, the diving island. Her brother arrives and is introduced. He is very sweet but possibly a crust short of a sandwich. I show him the pen given to me by a lawyer friend who works for Man Hunt, a gay dating site. The pen has a man wearing Calvin Klein’s on the side. Once tilted the Calvin Klein’s roll down revealing a somewhat disappointing manhood. Mahlee’s brother is in raptures and I know I have lost the pen forever as he proceeds to show it to both neighbours and anyone else he can stop in the street, giggling as he does.

A break in the cloud and Man child decides it is time for him to head home and get his training gear. He has a kick boxing session at 5.30.

Mahlee says he can’t leave ‘Mamma’ on her own.

“She’s fine Mahlee, she’s a grown up.”

I am?

Mahlee and I chat for another hour and I hear her story, which is tragic and, I suspect, typical. The best bits being 2 marriages, both to Germans. One who knocked out two of her teeth and broke her cheekbone and the other who treated her like a slave. I have promised not to tell the rest of her story until time and distance will spare her any loss of face. Now she is alone but more content. She still drinks beer and smokes ‘puff’ occasionally but has all her other excesses under control. Her dream is to open a laundry next year; it is full of dreams this land of smiles.

Another break in the downpour and time for me to head home. Mahlee insists she will find me a ride – and disappears. Half and hour and 3 passing taxis  later, she comes back and shrugs – no one to take me.

That grumpy gene is starting to kick in as a recycling half back pulls up. An immaculately dressed young woman is driving with 2 dodgy looking characters in the back. The dodgy men load up Mahlee’s recycling and the young woman pays Mahlee as Mahlee starts negotiating my ride home. I am not happy and tell Mahlee I would feel safer going in a taxi.

Affronted she waves her hands and stamps her feet.

“This is my FRIEND! You don’t want to go with my FRIEND”.

I know I’ve lost, so, hugging Mahlee goodbye and promising to return in the next few days, I climb into the half back and introduce myself to the young woman driver, Nute.

Never judge books by their cover. At my age I should know that. Nute is 43 (looks about 20). The recycling is her business. The men in the back are her temporary labour force. They look dodgy because they’ve been handling rubbish all day. When they go back to Bangkok next week she will have to sort out all the recycling herself. Heavy work, hard work. We drop the labour force off in Thongsala and continue over the hills to my home.

Nute has 2 children a daughter of 24 who is finishing her degree in Bangkok and another who is 19, married at 14 (yes, 14) and is now 6 month’s pregnant. She had hoped that her son-in-law would join her business and relieve her of some of the heavy work but it seems that Thai men do not always make good husbands.

The father of Nute’s daughters left many years ago and Nute has brought them up single handedly, starting her recycling business 4 years ago.

In the next twenty minutes she points out the best sights on the island, tells me she has a friend with good rooms to let if I am not happy with mine, says I should learn to ride a motorbike and that she will swap motorbike lessons for English lessons.

When I suggest that I am better suited to 4 wheels than 2 she says she has another friend who may be willing to rent me a car at Thai rates.

“Do you drink alcohol?” Out of the blue, as we approach a bar perched high on a hilltop with stunning views.

“Is the Pope catholic?” She looks blankly.

“Poot len” (Only joking) – see I’m getting the hang of this.

I suggest we leave the drink until we get home where she could speak to Ham to see if there was a chance of her picking up the resort’s recycling contract. There isn’t, the owner of the resort also has a recycling business.

We sit on the beach as the sun sets, drinking cocktails. Ham and his 2 year old daughter come out to provide the fire show – 2 and she can juggle with fire. Nute shows me photo’s of her boyfriend. 39 from the north of England and now living with her here on Phangan. I advise that she should look after herself first and make sure he is a ‘good’ man before she throws her lot in with him.

I tell her she must meet Man child and ‘She who must be obeyed’ when they arrive. She tells me that her eldest daughter will be my Thai teacher when she comes down for Christmas.

Call from Man child. I decline the offer of dinner and tell him about my day and my new friends.

He’s happy with that – happy that I am settling and he has half moon party on his side of the island to go to.

Nute and I swap numbers and I agree to go and see the car tomorrow.

You can pack an awful lot into one day.

Who knew I could go on a motorbike?

Am at the ‘I’m in need of matchsticks to prop open my eyes’ stage of my journey to the sun.

Nick duly despatched me to Heathrow pre rush hour and the 24 hour trek began.
We’ve covered the airport experience before; it hasn’t improved but flying Malaysian Airways was certainly a new experience.

Did you know that they now make planes the same size as  double decker bus depots, and it’s not just the ‘turn left’ brigade who get to go upstairs any more?
Well they do, make planes that size, and some obviously ‘disturbed’ child has come up with a cracking new idea to add to the thrills and spills of air travel, thrills and spills that rank one above shopping in my book, and shopping brings me out in hives.

Some juvenile sadist has persuaded the airline to fix a camera onto the double decker bus depot’s tail, enabling us all to savour the take off on our mini screens. Oh what fun! An actual calamity, so much more fun than virtual reality.

Now I don’t claim to know a lot, but I do know that the most dangerous thing about an operation is the anaesthetic, and the most likely time for a plane to crash is the 15 seconds after take off and the 15  seconds before landing,  and now an ‘in need of psychiatric help’ freak has come up with a cunning plan that allows us to watch it, in real time, as it happens and the airline think it’s a good idea “Oh look we’re on the main runway! Oh look we’re taking off! Oh look the nose is on fire! Oh goody we can see our death crash!”

The landing in KL is not much better. The amazing cabin crew informs us that the outside temperature is 25 degrees at 7 am. Well that’s as maybe but it is also lashing it down with Noah’s Arc enthusiasm and if I can’t see the runway on my new ‘let’s watch the action live’, mini screen, I’m damned sure the pilot can’t.

Somehow he brought the double decker bus depot in safely. On the extremely plus side I had a whole row of seats to myself as did the young Aussie in front of me.

“Times like this you want to go into first class, wave your ticket and say something like ‘I’ve got a bigger bed than you!’ Don’t you think?” Can’t keep a good Aussie down.

Needless to say I still couldn’t sleep. I skimmed Casino Royale (what is it with aeroplane ear phones?) with the very watchable Mr Craig and was quite enjoying it until I remembered it was all about blowing up large aeroplanes.

Who decided that was a good one to put in the ‘favourites’ list?

Read the Hunger Games – enjoyed – would kind of like those rules to apply to the celebrities in the jungle – and then another far more forgettable film and ate my way through ridiculously large amounts of food that didn’t even taste like airline food, it tasted like, food.

Incredibly, I managed to get across town, without getting lost once, to the ‘no frills’ airport for the next leg. Malaysia was wet, very green and very wet. Huge interior plants climbing ever upwards, doing battle for sky space with the city of high rise. The orderly chaos of the rush hour streaming onto the highways ensuring a half hour journey takes twice as long.

I actually prefer the ‘no frill’s airport. It’s quiet, understated and familiar. More boutique than bling with quiet stylish fast food restaurants and free wifi. Heathrow, take note.

Ah, they’re calling the flight, now that’s a bit lively. The plane’s only just landed. It looks a bit like supermarket sweep. Cleaners rushing on and off, orange umbrellas, orange Wellington boots and sou westers being pressed upon us instead of the usual newspapers. The plane is in orange livery. Only beautiful Asian girls could get away with wearing the orange uniforms. As we are herded out of the departure lounge I suspect this is Malaysia’s answer to Easy Jet; suspicion confirmed when I see the fans on the front of the plane. Upmarket Easy Jet mind you, I don’t remember Stavros handing out umbrellas.

We scramble up the 5 stairs to the doll’s plane. No wide aisles here, no wide seats. Seat belts are barely fastened and we’re off! Spinning down the runway, nay roaring down the runway! How come this tiny baked bean can is five times as noisy as the bus depot? I notice the wing is looming over me and there’s a hole in it at the back. It looks a bit charred. Best ignore.

Samui.

I love Samui airport, more a friendly hotel lobby that forgot to put up the walls than a determined to humiliate border crossing. The humidity hits my sinuses and I can feel my cold receding, my hair curling and sticking to my face and sweat, delicious sweat, running in rivulets down my chest.

“Sawadee Kah”

Why was I nervous? What did I think I had to fear? This is the land of smiles.

There he is, the tousled haired man child that still seems 4 to me. Tanned and pulling on a cigarette; waving nonchalantly to let me know he is here but with a ‘please mum don’t embarrass me’ carelessness.

The ferry crossing is choppy and does wonders for my jet lag and stomach full of airline food, but we meet a lovely Australian couple on their pre wedding honeymoon at a place called ‘The Sanctuary’ “Do I know it?” No, but man child does and by the time the 40 minute journey is completed he has been nominated the unofficial tour guide for the island as newcomer after newcomer bombards him with questions.

“You should set up a business” says the Australian bride to be. One look at the local Thai mafia who are obviously not impressed with his free advice causes me to reply.

‘Perhaps not. I quite like my son being alive.’

Arriving 4 days early is not conducive to resort receptions being accommodating (arriving on the day you are expected is barely). Of course I’m not booked in. Naturally I haven’t paid my 50% deposit and no, I am nowhere on their system.

Now tired and verging on grumpy, I attempt to use their internet facilities with about as much success as Gordon Ramsey would have trying to create a meal using the utensils in my kitchen.

Finally they find me on the system and, once my ‘pass a por’ (turned out to be passport) has verified my reality we are lead in pitch darkness up a path to the hillside bungalows; a path that would kill a goat.

“Mai Dai!”

Man child bellows, seconds before I am about to collapse with the exertion of moving one blister clad foot (yes they’re back) another step upwards.

Debate in Thai follows – I am quite impressed. Slithering back down the hill in fear of shattering a hip, eventually we are taken to a villa that is almost on the beach. I love it! Simple, clean, taps that work, shower that does likewise, western toilet (must remember not to clog with paper), air con, TV, and resident dog on gorgeous balcony.

I can do this.

Strange swimming pool outside my door. Nowhere to sunbathe but that could be good, I could have it all to myself.

I see lights. Man child sees lights. I hear gentle plopping on the shore.

Man child sees bar.

Two Mai Thai’s later, I now have new bezzy mate – Ham, who comes from Laos, thinks that speaking in a cod Scottish accent is the height of ‘cool’ and has more tattoos than a Glastonbury contingent. We have agreed to swap better English for rudimentary Thai.

Having said goodnight to man child who has bartered his way back to his temporary accommodation and a late night pool party, bought a bottle of water from the supermarket on the corner that bears the name 7/11 proudly, I say good night to my new dog and pass out.