That's what careless words do.

Little Miss Bond says something careless...   

Words…                                                                                                                                  …Words…              

                                                              …Words…                                            … mine simply are not good enough, so I’ve stolen some from Rothfuss. Why steal? Because he is a man who knows how to use his words where I do not.  

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.” _{Patrick Rothfuss.} 

It is not that I am lost for words. It is more that I am drowning in an ocean of synonyms, metaphors, colloquialisms and nonsense. It is not that I cannot find the words, or that I am not capable of eloquently blending pronoun adjective, noun, conjunction, interjection adjective. This is not a statement of modesty. This is not request for praise. This is a simple truth.

My words aren’t good enough…

I have used my words too often and too loosely. My words have flowed callous and quick, sharp and spiteful, thoughtless and thick. Words of mine have caused anguish and great affliction. Curse cutting words openly uttered have ruptured pride, caused pain and persecution. Some words in particular may take a second to ejaculate yet a lifetime may not wipe away the smear. It is these tapering pointed words we are all capable of spitting in upset, anger or even angst that will be the ones to cause the most sorrow. These sharpened daggers of erroneous catastrophe will often not render their subject more scarred than scratched, a surface wound on the intended victim, can be a near mortal blow to the attacker.

Is it easier to forgive than accept forgiveness? For a person like me I think this might be true, which is why ‘a person like me’ with this mouth in this head should know this much better. I’m going to steal words again, this time from a theologian  “To forgive is to set a prisoner free and to realise the prisoner was you.”  _{Lewes B. Smedes}   

A prisoner of words?

As a forgiving person I believe in giving second chances, but seldom do I offer them myself. As a person prone to making mistakes, a chronic sufferer of the human condition I have needed many fresh starts, many helping hands and had lived my life for a time believing I would always have such opportunities. But this is not the case. Imagine for a second this time is the last time, that this task is the last task, that this word is your last, now ask yourself honestly… 

              ...is it right?

Would you be so quick to react if knew this reaction would be your last? Perhaps not. When faced with this question we inherently become the amateur philosophers of our youth, reflect over the noble and concoct a satisfying vague answer to blanket the issue, tucking it in to the dismissive folds of our active minds. 

Please, let me set the scene for you; 

You are young. Around 25 years of age, the world at your feet and forever at your heels. You are happy enough, in comparison to the confused unstable adolescent you suddenly out grew just a handful of months ago. You are in bar, a dark and familiar place, smoke frames the heated intellectual conversations, the smell of Jagermeister and socialism floating in its tail.  It’s not your bar. Not anymore. There was a time, not so long ago, not so long before you exploded into the surety and wisdom that comes with a self professed journey directly to adulthood that this was your bar, your home, your work place your respite. These people are not strangers, they are friends and good friends, close friends loved friends. But you have been away. The person that left and the person that sits in your seat now wear a similar face, dress in a similar fashion and answer to the same name. To the untrained eye the face now sitting in the once familiar seat is identical to the one that left, yet closer inspection reveals slight blemishes and some superficial surface scarring. The seats previous owner had been fearless, frivolous and infamous for being so, and it was these factors that forced the original exodus.

And now you are sitting there.

A culmination of then-and-now, apprehensive, excited, inebriated. Surrounded by the familiar yet strangely out of your comfort zone. When an old friend, one who had the insight to notice the scars before they settled, before you left eve, turns to you. Seeing you for the first time since you parted the friend makes a flippant remark, a cutting remark that you were not prepared for and all of sudden you flush. The remark is made in jest and purely in jest and you reaction erupts spontaneously from your mouth like a salmon bursting upstream from a river of shot glasses and cigarette smoke.

How do you react?

With equal cutting jest, with seriousness, with anger, with love? What if this reaction was to be your last reaction, the next statement your last, does it change it? Please bear in mind in the affliction of your youth in the scenario before you answer, then contemplate the connection to your youth now outside of the hypothetical and explore any differences you find. If you were to retort in a derogatory fashion do you suppose the friend would forgive after your passing? But of course, when we lose someone we truly cared about so many frictions become trivial, we have the blessing of clarity. We can truly see what matters in a friendship, a lover and sibling a spouse we let go of hurt harbored deep and allow love in abundance that we wished we’d bestowed whilst we had the chance. So yes, rest assured, after your passing most will forgive you even if they weren’t ready before.

Let us change the scenario in the slightest degree. Everything up until the point of your choice is the same, the smoke in the bar, the face in the chair, the scene I laid out hasn’t altered, the flippant remark has just been spoken but this time you know you will walk away from the situation physically unscathed, your feelings may be hurt but you will go on to other things, possibly even better things, you are both guaranteed to leave the bar that night, you may be 3 sheets to the wind, you might feel like death in morning but you’ll live. You’re old friend on the other hand, will not. Could you forgive yourself for making the wrong choice?

The point about this scenario which I have played over and over in my mind is that if we are honest with ourselves we find the answers do change, maybe a just slight fraction or maybe a world apart from speaking without thought. But once it is said, what is done cannot be undone, it can be mended in time when the chance arises but this scenarios doesn’t offer that second chance so many of us rely on.  By not saying what we truly feel are we being untrue to ourselves. 

How often are we truly honest with others and ourselves, is it enough? What is it that can stop us using our words for the positive, how much of what we think and feel will never be spoken due to pride, politeness, fear, circumstance and the million other legitimate excuses we create as barriers?

Words spoken in anger may not have been sincere but they certainly have been spoken. Make no mistakes about this.

It has been over 2 years since I left the bar in Amsterdam making the wrong choice. But that was the friendship that we had, we didn’t need to be sentimental but we certainly didn’t need to be harsh. Worse than this after I made one bad choice I made a second by conveying my hurt as disdain for my friend to another. It has been a year since he passed and now…

…my words are not good enough.

It is not that I am lost for words. It is more that I am more drowning in an ocean of synonyms, metaphors, colloquialisms and nonsense. It is not that I cannot find the words, or that I am not capable of eloquently blending pronoun adjective, noun, conjunction, interjection adjective. This is not a statement of modesty. This is not request for praise. This is a simple truth. The last words we shared we not good enough and there is never a way I can fix that…                     

         … there is no time left for words now.

“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.” _{John Greenleaf Whittier.} If you never listen to another word I say (and I can forgive you that) then let these stick with you. 

Be sincere.

I have learned two things in this past year, which I try to remain true to, so some day my words will be my allies maybe even my legacy?

1.)    The pain and persecution your words can cause can be far greater for you than the person you originally intended them for.

“That's what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.” _{Arundhati Roy}  They can make you love you a little less, don't be a prisoner to your words, forgive yourself and the bad things you have said, and TRY, try with all your might never to say them again. 

And

 2.)    Most importantly it is the words you don’t say that can haunt you the most, words like I’m sorry or I forgive you or I love you. Don’t rest in the knowledge that there will always be another chance. Those you love won’t always be there, and life will prove this to you over and over again. The loss of an absolute legend this Sunday has sadly confirmed this and I want to send an abundance of love and light in these dark times  to his family and friends, in dark times it is important to spread light.

When a tragedy strikes its effects are openly devastating and providing support and love to others can be a crutch for your own personal healing too. But don’t wait for fate to knock, I spoke of Griff often with fondness and a smile, but I rarely told him. If you share a story about a friend that’s far away or you’ve not seen for a while that creates a smile or laugh with the friends you're with then... 

...TELL THEM! 

Share the smiles with their creator, if something reminds you of someone when you’re on a bus or walking home or going about your everyday business, don’t push the thought to the back of your head and get on with the tasks at hand, your chores will be there tomorrow. Share your love, give your mum or dad or grandparents, siblings or children a hug. Think of something special about your other half and share it with them no matter how much you may feel like strangling them most of the time, because something you said might be making them feel the same about you! 

 

You never know a kind word might be just what that person needed to get them through a difficult time, share uplifting words, say something good. If you made it to the end of this jumble of words then please, don’t think for a minute about all the problems you have in life, or all the little niggles that are slowly driving you insane. Take a deep breath, shut down your computer, pick up the phone, go to the living room or the kitchen, walk a 500 miles if you have to (But sing the Proclaimer’s as you do, to keep your spirits up.) just to tell someone somewhere something special while you can.

  

 x x And don't forget you're someone special too! x x 

Correct me if I'm wrong but... (Little Miss Bond got her knickers in a twist last week)

An authors note: (oh laaa dee daaa) Please excuse the poor quality of writing I was too fecked off to proof read this one

Correct me if I’m wrong but...

We have web at work again, which for me means a whole hour during nap time of trawling positive thinking and or humanitarian aid sites and nitpicking and nibbling bit-sized bits of highly opinionated  surface info on exactly why the world is both rammed with outstanding beauty and inspirational miraculous people and pixie dust and rainbows and fat leathery grey unicorns (that you ‘normal people’ refer to as rhinos) and simultaneously absolutely irreparably fucked!

The latest snippet that’s made my arse twitch, is the US pointing missiles at Syria. And yes I know I’m a bit behind the times here,  well I say a bit I’m sure they’ve been ear marked for Assad since way before Bush threw his nasty little “gimme gimme” tantrum and threw all of his toys out of the pram and into Iraqi followed by Blair’s stupendous performance like the weedy snotty kid in the playground following the loathsome yet cumbersome bully from A to B and back again on demand. I’m sure we all remember swelling with pride as he played out the role with such accuracy and poked his weasely little pimpled afflicted head around the giants shoulder and boldly proclaimed (on behalf of an entire nation) “Yeah… What he said!”

 The way I see that one, is that the cumbersome brute started a nasty whisper, saying that in the little drawstring bag the exiled foreign kid kept clutched firmly to his side at all times was a plethora of the most spandanckingly marvelous marbles, rareys and kingys and queenys and of course ball bearings that anyone had ever seen, marbles that weren’t from around here and in fact he’d even heard the weird little foreign kid bragging about this collection when no-one else was around! (Quite who he was bragging to was omitted from The Lump’s story as no-one save The Lump had heard the threats of evil doings the foreign kid had made upon the cool kidz) If the whole playground didn’t unite immeadiatly then the nasty little foreign kid was going to use his unfairly large and rather unfairly extraordinary marbles in an epic contest, usurping the entire collection of the grades above and below! Where most of the cool kidz were rather indifferent to the threat the nasty foreign kid personified, although most disliked and distrusted the kid immensely they weren’t willing to risk jumping him behind the bike shed and snatching the little clutch away from his grasps for fear of getting caught, thus forgoing their own collection AND the mythical contents of the little bag to a far more dominating force, the Teacher! Oh no, confiscation was not an option! Although they were deeply concerned about the nasty way in which the nasty kid treated the little group he hung with but the nastiness was simply none of their business. They were busy. But then there is Britain the little pimply faced kid, who had once been by far the tallest in the Kindergarten and had been set to continue to great heights of possibly even 4ft before primary, yet the growth spurt died down and blemishes and the pimples kicked and then all of sudden The Lump just got fatter and fatter and bigger and bigger until he dwarfed even the teacher, who did her utmost to control the gargantuan being (which had she been paid a bit more and had more spare time would have been a damned site more, but she was busy and tired most of the time and let’s face it, he’s not going to stop just because she tells him to, despite her repeatedly doing so, now she just gets on about her business of lesson planning and educating the others to the best of her ability throwing in a harsh word and naughty wall sanction and every now and then to save face and for good measure.)

So  Lump the gargantuan takes precedence over the play ground, they play his games, his way and he’s always became the captain of the winning team right before the end, but the Foreign Kid simply won’t play ball. In fact so much so that he encourages others not to play either and forcing them into his own game, these are weak and weedy kids that really don’t want to play with the nasty little foreign kid but they really don’t have a choice.

Now The Lump is both angry and jealous, so he convinces the pimply kid that if the nasty kid wins all the marbles in the weedy kids pockets with his awesome collection of rare and disastrous special monster marbles that no-one has ever seen before, that the pimply kid’s stash may be next! The only thing to do is storm over lamp him the f**k out snatch the bag quick before the teacher sees and bring it straight back to The Lump to share out. In fact he’ll even go over there with him and stand at a distance, just to make sure he doesn’t try anything, that way he’ll be to blaime but the Pimply Kid can look like a hero and he’ll have stopped the usurper and saved the marbles for everyone.

Now the Pimply Kid, who’s still not forgotten about the days in grades gone by, when his unnaturally gangly stature and long arms meant that he would not have had to lamp the nasty Foreign Kid or have The Lump behind him, he could have just waded over demanded the bag and also the marbles of the weedy kids, all of which would have been bestowed upon him without hesitation and then distributed back amongst the children as he saw fit (if he indeed did.) The resonance of the days of stature still strong in the Pimply Kid’s mind he marches over the playground, with a massive point to prove. Some of the more sporty imaginative kids twig to what he’s doing, set down the conkers momentarily and try and talk him out of it, because Francious is certain that he doesn’t even have any marbles in the bag just a few rocks and a kit-kat wrapper, Francios says the Pimply Kid is stupid the Pimply Kid says Francios is more stupider, The Lump refuses to talk to Francious ever again! But the Pimply Kid’s almost there now and Lump the cumbersome is right behind him so he reaches into his pockets and grabs his own kingsized ball bearing and windmills it back, back, back and up and

WALLOP!

The Foreign Kid is down and the Pimply Kid snatches the bag out of his hand and peers hopefully inside to find a stash of shiny football cards and a battered pog. The Lump seizes his chance and swipes the swag from the Pimply Kid ripping out the shiny football stickers and tossing the scratched pog and the limp empty bag to the ground. He finds an ordinary run of the mill sticker of a midfielder and palms it off to the pimply kid, and takes the shiny stickers off to sell for an unfair amount to some kids in the grade below, and uses the cash to raid the tuckshop at break and buy up all the good sweets, which tomorrow he’ll be willing to sell for a price reflecting the high demand and short supply of strawberry bon bons and chocolate cigarettes, he doesn’t really need the stickers as he’s already got the complete set stuck into his book at home where no-one can touch it.

So now everyone’s mad at the Pimply Kid, the weird kids are free to play by themselves but just can’t agree on a game and are damn adamant that whatever game it is it WONT be the one the Pimply Kid suggests and the Lump certainly can’t play! Now  the tuckshop’s half empty and tomorrow the Lump will be lording his lollipops over everyone.

THERE!!! I think that’s a pretty factual description of foreign affairs… Rant over! Didn’t quite mean to go on that long but I did and  you’ve read it now so what can you say, that’s 30 seconds of your life you’ll never get back and me 1 step closer to anger induced aneurism. Let’s all have a deep breath shall we? All! Obama included, chill your beans bruv.

The thing that worries me is that in my lifetime I have been a citizen of a country that entered into an illegal war without my support and got away with it! What’s up with that? I mean the streets were filled with anti-war protests, the rest of the world said no to war, no-one got behind ‘us’ yet they did it anyway. Well someone must have warned the bumbling pair of hard headed power hungry twats at the helm of the operations that “you’ll never get away with this!”.

“Oh yeah? Just watch me…”

Not say that Bush or Blair masterminded the entire operation, twats they are genius, they are not. For evidence of this please click below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbBxfUK1hfE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_3xvXy9eVM
 

The powers that be, (the ones that buy themselves presidents aka Obama opting out of state funding for the election and happening upon Left Wing master puppeteer George Soros.)  

I just Googled Syrian Regime and ABC reported that Obama has made no decision about Syria, where directly below FOX news, the very birthplace of fact and integrity, reported Obama prepares to bypass the UN Well what’s the fecking point in having a U bloody N then? As an aside in the google search bar if you type Syrian Regime suggestion number 4 is ‘killing babies’ aptly placed by the God’s of propaganda. Right this is not to say that I am supporting monstrosities or denying them. All I am saying is that I suspect biased media coverage supporting another CIA proxy war. If we really care about humanitarian disasters let’s take a peek at the last decade in Sudan and now South Sudan after the UN declared the civil war a genocide in I think 2005 and the world sat back and jack shit about it. The very organization with the founding principle of never again turned away and now the 100s of thousands of South Sudanese wait in camps with no identity to be taken over the border to South Sudan where they can claim citizenship. Problem is the roads are closed and the money for transport has completely ran out, if you tell a local there are still Southerners in the North the reaction is shock it was just assumed they’d left, these people have been disappeared stranded with no country no name no hope and it wouldn’t cost that much to sort it out relatively speaking, or should we peek a little further over the continent to Mali, is anyone aware of Mali? Anyone who knows me know not to get me started on the Clinton administration’s balls up in Mogadishu leading to the abandonment of Paul Kigame and the “rebels” in Rwanda and the UN sending information directly to the hand of the interahamwe. I’m not saying I don’t believe in intervention in fact in many cases it is our obligation as citizen of the world. In fact I’m not actually sure what I’m saying and not sure I know enough to say it. Correct me if I’m wrong but have Syria’s neighbours not refused to support the intervention and are other nation state threatening to retaliate against Israel? I’m a bit confused as to how this would avert a humanitarian disaster? I’m obviously ill educated on the subject so I shall go back and do so, I am working myself up in to a little frenzy here all spelling nad grammar have gone out the window. I think I shall take my own advice, chill out have nutty latte, calm myself down and just go about my business. Nothing to see here folks, eyes down, get on with your business it’s too much to think about during coffee time.

P.S. please watch this video while I have brew and spit feathers, love peace and lentils to one and all J

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msA35ATXol8

Little Miss Bond for 30 Days and 30 Nights.

Some of you may be familiar with TED Talks, TED is an organisation introduced tome by the wonderful Jacky Boy (* see below),  TEDs main aim is to spread ideas worth spreading. On their webpage they offer “riveting talks by remarkable people, free to the world.” For those of you who aren’t familiar with the awesomeness of all things TED you should be! I’ve included links to some great talks to get you started, including; a man from Birmingham who’s art is so small his paintbrush is the hair from a flies back, a synesthesiac mathemagician who turns numbers into cookies and those guys off the Youtube video on the train with that crazy French woman joining in. (You’ll know what I mean!)  About a year ago I watched Matt Cutts, the Director of the organization giving a speech entitled: Try something new for 30 days. (Link below also)

Mr Cutts was stuck in a self proclaimed ‘rut’ and decided to take the simple advice of a standup comedian and think of something he had always wanted to do…. And then do it. Perfectly simple no? 

In theory yes but how many of us have little (or large) ambitions that niggle at us almost daily yet never come to fruition. Mainly because there’s always a good reason not to, like feeding the dog or taping Eastenders. It turns out the 30 days is just the RIGHT amount of time to add a new habit or subtract a habit. During the speech Matt convincingly takes you on a journey from ‘desk dwelling computer nerd’ to hiking mount Kilamanjaro.

Whilst watching this 3 minute video I felt inspired, energetic and motivated. I loved the concept, it was so simple if you want to do something… do it! It was pure genius, everything that is lacking in our lives is absent because we are yet to put it there and ‘if you really want something badly enough you can do anything for 30 days.' After all it’s just 30 days, it’s not for life it’s a personal challenge with achievable goals. I felt a surge of potential course through me, for the first time in a long time I reveled in the possibilities of me. I could do anything I set my mind to. My mind raced with infinite ideas such as learning Spanish, learning French, learning French and Spanish, read Arabic, master the hula hoop, learn to flair, write a novel, dance, juggle, contact juggle, fire hoop, fire staff, fir poi, study online, gardening, pottering, mug painting and oh the list seemed unending and yet at my finger tips ready for me to stretch them out and just take whatever life skills I’d secretly fantasized about possessing but never acted upon. And then slowly month by month become some form of super fit, super flexible circus trick yielding, fire breathing, WI destroying craft champion, with a firm knowledge of calculus, quantum physics and salsa. I shut down the laptop alive with possibilities of the entire cosmos pulsating through my veins and proceeded then and there to do... absolute bollocks all.

You see I was living on a boat at the time and I wanted to mull over my new found superpowers with a cup of tea, having electrical problems so the kettle killed everything. Anyone who’s ever been in the van on festival sites, or had penchant for Shell Island in the summer or subscribed to ‘Caravan and Camping’ knows the treachery of the magnificent surge of petty electric kettle. The principle on the boat is the same, so one had to microwave the cup of water, and whilst watching the little yellow and orange cracked handle turn clumsily though the darkened greasy window, I soon forgot all about me and my superhuman brain power and ability to make soufflé every day for 30 days without ever seeing the recipe and became transfixed on how bloody hard life was without a kettle. And how much I HAD to do and how little I wanted to do, and how tea wasn’t really what I wanted and how long it would be before people who worked office hours would stop this ludicrous behavior of 9 till sodding 5 and go halfs on a few litres of Crumptons with me. Aspirations farted into the wind.

It is was over a year later for reasons irrelevant to the this tale I decided bugger it, it’s only 30 days. Hardly the poetic pep rally I’d given myself on the boat many many moons ago. But hey, I’m living in a flat with my own name on the deeds, paying monthly rent, it does not float or have wheels and I work Monday to Friday, 7-5 how did this happened I’m not sure. But I now have the novelty of evenings to myself. So after 4 days in bed sick, one does tend to get philosophical in the throngs of a fever in a Thai bedsit I decide to pick up a hula hoop and head to pool, to exercise for 1 hour every day! By the time I get to the pool I decide it hot outside and best not run before you can walk, so on day one I decided on 15 minutes swimming and 15 hoop in the reverse order I decide to document my feelings after the first 5 days. And so my challenge begins…

 

http://www.ted.com/talks/matt_cutts_try_something_new_for_30_days.html

http://www.ted.com/talks/willard_wigan_hold_your_breath_for_micro_sculpture.html

http://www.ted.com/talks/arthur_benjamin_does_mathemagic.html

http://www.ted.com/talks/naturally_7_jams_fly_baby_with_an_orchestra_of_vocals.html

*whom I was also going to accredit as my muse for studying philosophy, due his new happy go lucky  outlook on life and swimming, I though if Jack can be happy clappy I can study philosophy lets have a switch, (Jack studied philosophy in uni and often used it to quash my love of bubbles and rainbows and the greater good) however I've just read his comment about Tiny superheros and have decided he's a big fat floating poo!

Little Miss Bond and All That Glitters... a quick wander around Puerto Banus.

I awake as early as is physically pleasing after finally settling at 7:30am. He shouts something in Spanish possibly about buying houses followed by a wash of incoherent babbling ending in the word Capita. I try not to laugh audibly. It is a little after 10. Previous to the bilingual mumblings he left for work at 8pm and returned to me a little after 7:30am, shiny shoes and swollen feet. He rolls over and professes through pursed lips and sealed eyes he wants to wake to be with me. I bid him sleep, steal a kiss and slink away, shutting out the day as I do.

I wrap a borrowed pen, a notebook, my wallet and his spare telephone in my aged scarf along with my latest inspirational confuzzlement from Lama Yeshe and tie the precious bundle securely to my back.

I take some keys from the dresser and let myself out into the sun quietly, miraculously without bumping into or sending anything hurling noisily to the ground. A result, in my book.

It would appear that my 10:22 rise into the world, was a surprise attack on the bustling night streets of the Puerto Banus, the rest of which appears to lie dormant. My intention to procure him breakfast from the ‘Hipocor’ is thwarted by cold steel shutters. So I walk.

All is at peace again, the sheer ecstasy and elation of the package holiday makers antics has fallen silent with the rising of the sun. A young girl is showing signs of a complex struggle to operate a payphone in a circular bank of 5. She wears tousled hair, large glasses and an air of dismay. Her clothes are not fitting of the time of day. One can imagine such fineries to have been adorned a mere 12 hours ago as a badge of pride, she now awkwardly undertakes her walk of shame.

We are the only two in our little world at this precise moment. She sees me crossing, her stance changes from starkly pensive to a faux casual as she turns to lean her back to the phonebank, nonchallently gazing sporadically up and down, anywhere but at me. As if she feels that by adopting this stance this perfect stranger (me) will believe her whereabouts to be intentional and that, any minute, this casual damsel, not in distress, will be rescued by her night in shining amore and whisked away. Would it matter to her if I thought different? I smile. I smile at encountering my amusing new friend across the road and carry my smile around empty street corners.

After all, who has not been in her shoes from time to time? Although, I ponder as I walk, I can never remember a time during the morning after the night before where I was incapable of operating a payphone. And then it dawns on me; my only companion in this secret world of empty streets and piercing sun is potentially the best part of a decade my junior. This generation will all have possessed mobile telephone technology before exiting Primary School. To my new found friend, is the payphone, which she explores with all the grace of a monkey bashing a rock on a nut, an obsolete concept? Is there such a difference between my former fun loving self and the next generation of promiscuous binge drinkers? How long has it been since I, myself benefited from the use of such a contraption? Surely it can’t have become that complicated?

Seeing as the Puerto Banus wasn’t expecting me this early in the game, I have discovered her with her arsenal empty, so I decide to pootle. I draw my pen and pull out my notebook from the bundle and rest on the temporarily forgotten patio of El Mexicano Banus. Aside which is an extravagantly decorated kiosk, adorned with a thousand thousand intricate twists and twirls, flowing fashionably frosted to the four clean relatively new walls of the glass enclosure. A wash of wintery whites on such a juicy fresh Sunday. Above the ornate frosting in clear crisp tangerine letters proudly sits the word ‘sweet’, vacant of capital lettering or punctuation.

Inside the transparent extravaganza there lies nothing. Nothing but a bare screeded floor and newly abandoned dust. A now too familiar sight to each and every plaza, each avenue, each promenade now bares empty shells bypassed and forgotten by all. A sour pill many have swallowed in the sticky climate of today. Deeper down the rabbit hole we go with sweeter teeth and costly décor.

I turn a corner to cross at one of the hundred striped pedestrian crossings along this empty road, beneath a perfectly cultivated and trimmed criss-cross of branches I take momentary shelter from the sun. People are beginning to stir, I sit outside a Thai restaurant named the ‘Naga’. There are false stone carvings on the wall, non of which have any bearing to the mythical snaked Naga at all. A young Thai lady now shares my bench waiting contentedly between two white headphones. I examine the street up and down. My inquisitive eyes meet a cornucopia of themed restaurants and bars, estate agents, decadent ice creams and beauty alternatives all offering the same ideology perfectly manufactured for your exotic sensual pleasures in a boardroom far removed from here.  

An English man constricted yet flowing from poorly purchased golf shorts and a vibrant polo shirt talks clumsily in a booming voice of breaking into the ‘long term elderly market’. I can not say I care for his brash tone or his inhumane pitch. He stirs in me the need to move on. I realize it is Sunday, a fact I already knew yet had not yet contemplated. Now safe in the knowledge that little may come from my search for breakfast goods, I decide to head back to the apartment. As I take my first few steps a looming veranda shades the puce streets ahead, imprinted in its electric blue canvas in bold unyielding lettering is the message;

MARBELLA FOR SALE.

A sunburned couple waddle awkwardly past, clutching each other with dumpy pink arms, speaking sadly of missing MacDonald’s breakfast. I cross the road in the direction of home. Directly opposite, displaying dream properties and luxury shared apartments in the same bold blue stands the same veranda with the same message. A double sided attack;

MARBELLA FOR SALE.

 

For all my good intentions, which were leaning towards Strawberry pancakes and a veritable plethora of fruits, Sunday morning in the Puerto Banus has gotten the better of me. And as a I make the longer than originally anticipated walk home, I stop at the aptly named ‘Open Shop’ a seconds dash away from the gates of the complex and pick up a box of ‘Bon o Bon’ biscuits he had been excited for me try on our arrival and a children’s yoghurt version of a pina colada, which I intend to leave at his bedside. I also buy cheese, chorizo and sweet white rolls in a hope this falls into his category of acceptable breakfast foods (ironically the closest thing to croissant, which was my second choice, I can find in this ‘gourmet’ assault on the sea side senses.) A small offering compared to the grand designs I had awoken with on this Santo Domingo. As I pay the 9.75 a large handed, broad shouldered man smiles the warmest smile one could possibly ask for and dips into a box of sweets on the counter with his magnificent palms and cumbersome fingers and retrieves a fist of ‘Bon o Bon’ treats that he tosses into my open carrier free of charge. Thanks to this impressive man (whom I will later discover hails from Argentina) and his generous display, I come to the lasting conclusion that I will like the Puerto Banus, possibly not for the same reasons as my national counterparts who roam her shores. I feel content as I kick a piece of broken glass down the club lined ‘Plaza del Antonio Banderas’ looking in vain for a place I can dispose of it, spotting many more as I go.

I make sure on the way home to stop and lift the receiver of a pay phone in the bank, I smile as I gently place it back in its cradle, comforted by the subtlety and familiarity of the simple. Somethings just don’t change, I muse as I unwrap the first of my chocolate treats in the mid-day sun.

I sneak back into the house of sleeping men, careful not to let the rustle of the bags or the flippedy flap of my beloved 'hippo bloos' wake the workers. I slip the biscuits in by the bed, unnoticed. A round head and wide open mouth are the only things to protrude noisily from a fleece blanket, I watch for a second and smile again, turn tail and tip toe from the closed window towards the living room, where I sit at the glass and wrought iron table top, tapping away at loose black and white keys pondering how long the Puerto Banus will remain wide open to a world where all that glitters has found its place. The worn glitz and glamour of golden trinkets, tit-bits and treasures, all offered as lasting memories of the magic of the 'puerta abierta' sit in dazzling dressed windows. Their neighbors, the ever more prominent bold black and yellow signs that sting the eyes with their buzzing exclamations of salvation ‘Compro Oro!’ and ‘In GOLD we trust!’ A never ending band of circling commerce symbolically resting side by side, eternity rings lying in both the contrasting windows of the package dream in the daylight.     

Little Miss Bond Writes a Book?

50 ways to stalk a monk.

Some of you may or not be familiar with the book, 50 Bunny Suicides, a classic cartoon book  encompassing 50 ways in a which a rabbit can shuffle loose the mortal coil. A favorite of mine for 2 reasons; 1 in the inlay it is dedicated to Polly. 

Now those of you who have unusual names will know the heart break of shuffling around the arcades,  souvenir stores and rock stands country wide, spinning racks of key-rings, pens, tiny crappy teddies and door plaques in the hope that this time it will be different, this time somewhere between the Phillipas, Penelopies and Poppies there it will be, all shiny and new and just for you.  School trip after school trip returning home with an impersonal novelty pencil and bag of marbles (Mostly ‘Ords’ with the odd Queeny Rarey you’d throw in if you were feeling flush!)The agony of waiting when your friends return from the annual trips to Shell Island and the Costa Del Rhyll brandishing a selection of luminous sugar batons laced start to finish with sugar imprints of Jack Stacey Amy and John until they finally dig to the very bottom of the bag and hand the last treat over to Heidi and shrug ‘sorry they didn’t have your name.’

This book was addressed to Polly and at the age of 23 was probably the first anything addressed to Polly I’d had (I'm sure my mother will wildly contest this, so let me clarify that's the first Polly pressie I can remember that wasn't hand written in stickers and glue pens). That is one reason for it being my favorite, but moreover its bloody hilarious. One page that sticks to mind is the morbid cheeky chappy standing in row of SS Soldiers and offering a show of the ‘V’s’ as opposed to the traditional salute.  

This book is the inspiration for my own; the title for which was concluded on a plane from London to Oman. The conversation was fueled by the copious amounts of free booze the fools were plying us with before landing two rat arsed gingers in the heart of the Middle East (blended right in!!!).  Bella my esteemed friend and colleague J had been previously informed that nuns do not contract cervical cancer. Rather insensitively this point fell on me with much hilarity. Due to their virginal state the probability of a nun contracting this particular strain is far less likely than that of your average mascara stained, lady luck swooshing about the dance floor alone at 4am grasping the remaining lukewarm ice water from her double vodka Redbull eyeing up the Oceana glass collector’s cousin. How’d have thunk? Although in hindsight it makes sense, it seemed to me at the time a ridiculous statement. (Please bear in mind that at this stage on the journey post pre-plane bottles of wine Bella had spent I good 10 minutes crying with laughter lying aside a charity collection box, needless to say that afternoon was somewhat non PC, the seemingly endless supply of wine, AND Bloody Mary on the plane has only fuelled the degradation of the conversation… Brits on tour…CRINGE! ) The nuns immunity to such an aversion must then lead to the conclusion that a monk must also be kharmically averse to contraction of any ailments of the cervix a point that must be investigated, with careful observation and correct reporting.  How does one respectfully sneak up on a man of the cloth?   The ideas I can remember from the drunken conversation 7 months ago are follows:·         

The text book move: live in his bush.·          

Bury oneself in the pit of sand with nothing but your eyeballs on view, this way in his daily task of raking he inadvertently approaches you.  (please understand we had no intention of investigating any of their cervixes , peeking  up skirts or in fact carry out any of the ludicrous ideas, I’m simply sharing a joke, if your offending stop reading, this isn’t for you. Pop off and have chamomile tea in time for celebrity countdown, we’ll catch up soon Besos x)·          

Follow him in close proximity dressed as a snap happy Japanese tourist. To add spice to this particular method one could alternate movements from the Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks.·    

Dress up like The Little Mermaid and get in his fish tank.       

The conversation took on new levels of wrongness until the idea for the pictorial novel was born. 50 Ways to Stalk a Monk.

I'll up date you on the photographic progress in the next one.  

:) 

Little Miss Bond sums today in a nutshell (forgive me I'm not a fan proof reading!)

Last week I lived with monks. I infiltrated their layer and mingled amongst them, I walked mountains barefoot and mediated with a dead body; more on that later, today I had a thought I wanted to share.

Today; in a nutshell.

Today I heard a lie.

A blatant lie told to a friend to protect the one who spoke it. A lie spoken on my behalf without consultation that I neither requested nor endorsed.

Today I felt angry at the audacity of others.

Today I read this:

Sometimes we think that to develop an open heart, to be truly loving and compassionate, means that we need to be passive, to allow others to abuse us, to smile and let anyone do what they want with us. Yet this is not what is meant by compassion. Quite the contrary. Compassion is not at all weak. It is the strength that arises out of seeing the true nature of suffering in the world. Compassion allows us to bear witness to that suffering, whether it is in ourselves or others, without fear; it allows us to name injustice without hesitation, and to act strongly, with all the skill at our disposal. To develop this mind state of compassion...is to learn to live, as the Buddha put it, with sympathy for all living beings, without exception.

― Sharon Salzberg, Loving kindness: The Revolutionary Art of Happiness

Today I realized this:

So often when seeking an easy life one seeks forgiveness of others too quickly. Letting their behavior pass continuously unchallenged, yet if the perpetrator never truly realizes the extent to the hurt they cause how can you heal and how can they learn? You've done yourself a greater injustice than they ever did.
Protect yourself and others from conflict but also from fear do not harbor hurt it will transform to hate, you can not speak forgiveness if it is not in your heart. This does not make you a better person, this makes you a bitter person.

Good friends will offer and seek recompense honestly and openly without conflict. A good heart is a peaceful heart, not one that causes wrongs or one that feels wronged. Communication is key to happiness, a good friend is not one that never has to say sorry, it’s a friend that knows when. Listen to others and listen to your heart. Then, and not before then, you will find peace.

Today I questioned my right to be angry, I realised we're all so far from perfect (I'm as faulty as the come) and then I took a breath and let it go...

Today I'm working on it :)   

Little Miss Bond loves the Siriwatana (she's not so fond of spelling it or philimonic?)

The Siriwatana

Where is here?

All this talk of the how, I neglected to inform you of the where. Or the why. Why this particular location is it’s near to an Island that has great history with a King Rama 5, a man considered a God King who brought the West and many great things to Thailand, so I am following his path.  I am currently residing in the Siriwatan Hotel 35 johm jhen phon, Sri Racha. I sit at a small square desk restored with pine effect laminate flooring and rough nails which appear to be crafted by the hand of man rather than duplicated in their thousands from machine. The desk faces the blue emulsion hut wall, bare but for its indiscrepancies and open wiring. Aside me sits a table created of two separate entities fixed with the same nails and laminate effect lino flooring. To my left lies the final resting place of the old clothes horse provided with the room above this a metal rack 4 misshapen orange wire hangers messily struggle to keep their grip.

The room is spacious yet, dark in the day. Upon realizing this usher over to the mesh windows and the shutters behind me in an attempt to let the morning sun flood through any way it sees fit. I’m pleased with the results. The two windows take up a good part of the wall behind me they are guarded with first curtains, a faded blue paisley print forgotten at the printing press decades ago droops from a half way point, secured by rustic wire covered in yellow plastic tubing. I unhook both sets of wire to gain access to the mesh bug shields which are to be my next adversary. The hinges are the same nails I can see in all the furniture, this pleases me. I pull back the shields and reach me arms through the cast iron floral caging to the mahogany painted shutters. The shutters do not match, one is slated like that of cowboy saloon doors and the other is in fact an old door. I love them.
Through the window I can see a quadrangle of sea at me feet, darted with thick cumbersome concrete blocks, some used and others disregarded, yet not forgotten. The quadrangle wall to my left is a window bigger than mine with 3 larger matching shutters. Opposite is the decking that leads to my room and more windows, and to my right a pile of drift wood, ladders and old planks of anything brings me much joy, as I know sooner as later as the tide moves and sea lashes these will become part of the place I have deemed my 3 day home. The disregarded concrete columns will probably meet with these washed up and abandoned bits of timber and becomes someone elses walk home long after I am gone.

To get to the Siriwatana Hotel, one must first know it is here. There are no signs in any European language.  Crossing the road from a corner 7-11 one would only assume that where the fruit stall ends is where the corner turns not much would reside down the forgotten little alley, one would be wrong.  Follow the forgotten and you’ll be met with 2 higiidly piggildy jetties both of with are a hotel of sorts, one to the right hangs a wooden sign of sorts with a European lettering, the other the Siriwatana does not. You could pass a hundred times and not see it, unless like me someone luckily told you it was there. One sign hangs above the jetty at the top barely visible and reads poorly in faded partially covered Thai what I can only assume is the word SIRIWATANA.

At the top of the ramp, sits a desk and two concrete benches separated by a table to the side. When I returned last night the bench was  populated by a few older locals one of which had his back to me, the others wore old shirts drank small amounts of Thai whiskey and swayed and smiled. The man whose face I could not see took in a deep inhalation (this I could tell by the raising of his shoulders) and to my surprise emitted a piercingly beautiful spiel from a previous undetected harmonica shrouded by his faceless silhouette. I smile and so too does grey haired gentleman at the table who catches my eye, leans back on his bench and lifts his arms in grand yet graceful gestures as if he were conducting the London Philomonic Orchestra rather than sippling whiskey on a dilapidated old bench. I beam and bow as I walk the rickety decking, to my hut. I certainly know which where I’d rather be, amongst the turquoise wooden shanties and the loose shutters and twists and turns of make shift flooring feet above the water. This is the Hotel Siriwata, I urge you come and find me… if you can.  I’ll be back around 7.     

Meanderings and ramblings: Little Miss Bond blogged... who knew?

I Blogged! Who knew I could?

I still haven’t fully answered my question. Though I’ve trying for some months now, how is it I came to be here? Although in the literal sense both you and I both already know. I took the bus. A 40THB bus, I jumped off to be sick, I jumped back on as you already know and landed in shopping arcade called Robinsons, where I had a typically confusing debate as to whether or not there were other flavours of tea than green with a smiling waitress, the conversation went as follows.

After reading the extensive menu I enquire ‘Can I have a Kiwi shake?’ (In poorly grammatical Thai)‘No .Green tea?’

‘No Kiwi?’

‘No have. Green Tea’

‘Apple?’

‘No have. Green Tea.’ The menu promised a plethora of fruit shakes and I feel 
ill, I want fruity icey goodness, but alas there is none.                             

‘Oolong?’

‘Green Tea.’

‘Okay, can I have a Green Tea  please?’

‘Only have ice.’

‘Then yes one Iced Green Tea it is. Perfect’ That’s fine I’ll take what you have, 
just please give me liquids.

‘Ok 35 Baht.’

‘Thank you.’   She hands me the Iced Green Tea. It’s a kiwi shake.

Exhausted from the dramatic tea debacle and still bitten by the fever of the days past I slump to the floor with my shake feeling awfully shaky myself and am awoken by friendly Robinson’s security. I thank my lucky stars for the Thais love for over consuming sugar and gingerly lift the shake to my bedraggled lips. I’d only been on the bus half an hour? Time to find a room.I suppose a large part in my getting here, is inadvertently getting swallowed in a double act. Now this has on a normal day far more pluses than minuses, there’s a companion to confide in, to laugh with, to build a repertoire with in order to make others laugh, to share the bills, to share the chores, to share the joys, to share the bores. But in dual act as in most aspects in life what you truly need is balance, each player has a role and each role has purpose to balance the act.  Lucile Ball and Desi Arnaz,  Sid Little and Eddie large, Penn and Teller, Sid Vicious and Johhny Rotten, Noel and Liam Gallagher, Sonny and Cher, you see where I’m going here?  The point I’m making is it’s easy for one or the other to get lost in the performance and in doing so, they lose sight of the balance, the scales are tipped and one, other or both end up hurting. For me our scales have tipped, the apple cart has been up shut. 
Aristotle once wisely wrote. “You are what you repeatedly do.” Now here’s a man who knows what he is talking about. Have you ever read into the behavior change cycle? It’s a bloody marvelous piece of kit for validating human flaws.Here it is, but just imagine it as a circle.

• Pre-contemplation – a person has not yet decided that change is relevant to them.

• Contemplation - something happens to prompt a person to start thinking about a possible change, but they are still not committed to that change.

• Action - a person begins to plan a change.  They may be learning new skills and finding out information.

• Maintenance - the change has been integrated into the person's life, it is lasting and well practised.  At this point we exit the cycle entirely, or we may go into:

• Lapse or relapse - either temporary or permanent reversion to the pre-change behavior.

This in itself is fascinating enough, however what most people don’t think about in this wheel of change is the permission or justification cycle. At what stage during any of these changes does our will power bow into giving us permission to lapse. Okay, it’s New Year so the perfect time to evaluate this for us all. We all make resolutions.

Pre- contemplation; November: Beers, cigarettes, chocolate eclaires and any other delights are a pleasure to the senses the only thing they damage is my wallet. Healthy eating and exercise is for ‘those people’ the kind of couples who get up at 5am to jog together over Brighton Beach, the kind that name their children after philosophers and live in loft space and played synthesizers in University. So bollocks to that pour me a double, spark me up and spank me!

Contemplation; New Years approaching. Hmm what shall I whole heartedly devote myself into giving up in order to save my hard earned pennies and be fulfilled enriched and just happier all round?Action: New Years day (or  more than likely the 3^rd or 4^th when the party dulls down.) You toss away the Marlborough lights, buy a new toothbrush, step on the scales, Google LA Fitness, switch to decaff, immediately switch back (some things are just sacred), Buy a bunch of bananas a smoothie maker some granola and a celebrity endorsed recipe book and swear things will be different this time. And yes God damn it you can feel it, this time they will!Maintenance: Yes, yes you are the everyday middle classed equivalent to Mr Motivator, you start jogging, you join the gym. You own sweat bands for both wrists, the smoothie maker is the best purchase you ever made and you feel revitalized and brand spanking new! Go on, pat yourself on the back you deserve it!

But then somewhere in the maintenance period, February happens. Let’s face it February is shit, even Giglio himself knew this back in the 1500’s that why he made it the shortest month, to reduce potential for mass suicide and weird occults (you heard me scientologists, spaghetti monster any day!). Somewhere in the month of doom and gloom and rain you realise LA fitness costs a bomb, and you’d have to drive there or get the bus to avoid getting wet which defeats the object. Coffee’s not quite the same without a cigarette and beside their only lights. The smoothie maker takes for f**king ever to clean and the cook books full of exotic ingredients you can ‘t get in Spar and wasn’t half the point of turning over a new leaf to save money? This is getting expensive, may as well spend the gym membership on fags let’s face it you’ve cut down it’s cheaper now, buy skimmed milk and keep the toothbrush as long as physically possible, it still counts till May!And there you go my friends you have given yourself full permission to relapse. All your actions are fully justified and you’re back into pre-contemplation till November and let’s face it you tried you barely failed you’ve done no wrong. And when you’re in that stage of justification then there’s no arguing bartering or reasoning, with even the most reasonable of all human beings. And that is why the scales have tipped, and that is half of how I got here. 

How did I get here?

I ponder…

 …At the ripe old age of 27 years and 23 days wondering among a jungle of decrepit half built skyscrapers and handful of Americanized Steak Houses all boasting to be ‘the best steak in town’. Down each new alley hang promises of delightful Japanese food and all night karaoke nailed to homemade shutters in seemingly abandoned concrete shells. I’m calculating my route home via counting 7-11s and weaving accordingly. I have no desire to go inside any. Each new turn brings a new aroma of downpour and human waste which stings the nostrils and heightens the senses. How is it traipsing this forgotten attempt at a metropolis have I come to be wandering unknown tower blocks alone contemplating how near to paradise all of this feels?
I ask myself again, how did I get here? How did any of get to where we are? I count another 7-11 and turn again, this time I’m hit by overwhelming stench, I gasp for breath, it wasn’t 2 hours ago I had to make a sharp exit from the mini-van as it deposited a beautifully friendly young passenger on her merry way to Udom Something, and  not a second too soon I might add.  You see how I got home, which is how I got sick, which is partially how I got here geographically, was via a ferry from Ko Chang and bus from Trat to Pattaya. Said bus was  a mixture of the typical of the kind of company one would expect to keep on such an excursion.
 A recipe for the perfect Pattaya day trips just add…

10 large, excitable, sweaty non-to-threatening Russians, in the possession of the smaller one of the group was one slim and rather miserable looking prostitute complete with blue false nails, maroon hair extensions and poorly etched dragon tattoos for protection.

1 agitated bus driver who kept in a  bag  that resembled those doctors carried in to 40's under the passenger seat, and stooped off every 60 – 80K to drop off a small parcel to men waiting patiently mostly outside empty garages.

And 3 friendly young men from Pakistan, 2 of which seemed in high spirits and excited about yet another trip to Pattaya, the 3^rd man from Pakistan, part of the way in to the journey went from feeling a little worse-for-ware into a full blown attack of oddly pale coloured projectile vomit and loud prayers to Allah followed, by tears and more vomit. These men were deposited at a service station, where a woman the driver claimed was his sister would take them all to the nearest hospital for an agreed fee.

The 3^rd man from Pakistan is how I’m assuming I became ill. Having eaten nothing other than a 7-11 sandwich in a considerable amount of time, I could chalk it down to only this. I foolishly helped the 1^st man from Pakistan carry his woeful friend from the bus to a nearby bench while a disillusioned other collected bags deposited from the 3^rd from the min-van floor.
My intentions on exiting the fun packed tour were simple; shower off the marvelous bus ride, ram everything I owned that would fit into 5l rucksack pop some rent on the table and quite frankly fuck off! (Either that or blow some cash on tattoo, by now I was leaning far more toward fuck off.)

 When I put key to padlock I was met with the ever present mewing of The Pig which is in fact the cat. Now The Pig (this is his formal name) was making a more hellish racket than normal and I open the door to see poor little Piggles staring up at me forlornly nursing what appeared to be a broken paw. ‘Oh Fucksticks and buggery!’ I was too tired for this. I allowed the door to slowly pull itself too shutting my bags on the wrong side. ‘This is bloody massive spanner in the works.’ I moan. You see I don’t even bloody well like cats! I’m dog girl always have been always will be, yet here I am about to make my great solo escape in to the unknown dimension of ‘ anywhere but sodding here’ and I’m thwarted by a sorry looking grey tabby ball of fur, looking up at me with these lost green eyes as if to say, ‘you see? You see what happens when you leave me?’   A reluctant heroin I sweep the poor bastard into my arms and hold him close. It’s a bloody good thing I came back when I did or he’d have had to wait a week for attention.  He’s quiet elation to feel some kind of affection chokes me. How long had he been limping? How long had he been mewing waiting for someone to come home? (We’d been gone 2 days, we have automatic water and food dispensers and we leave the window open so he can come and go as he pleases.) ‘You poor boy,’ I exclaim hugging him tight. You see I don’t like cats, but I bloody love this pain in the arse. ‘Let me see you.’ I know instantly I’m grounded till he’s fixed and where I’m selfishly angry I vow not to leave his side and move all and sundry (including the litter tray) next to my bed so the little might doesn’t have far to go. “Cats? Not me, never liked ‘em”

But that’s not how I got here, that’s how I got there December 30^th 2012 angry and alone talking in a baby tones to a bloody cat! Which is part of how I got here, but before I got here, first got what then man on the bus got… sick!

Magnificently sick from 4am what I think was Sunday night on wards, oddly pale coloured retching that seized the very pit of my stomach and seem to attempt to pull the very life force screeching from abdomen through my mouth and nasal passage, burning with a furious essence comparable to bleach. This was not the opportune time for bout of earth shattering about-to-call-your-mother-at-4am-her-time nausea and there were many reasons why.

1.)   I was alone. (Remember the solo exodus to pastures greener?)
2.)   I had no telephone credit to call for a taxi. (I’d ironically spent it all getting The Pig to      hospital)
3.)    It was New Years Eve so even I could call taxi it wouldn’t come.
4.)    If the taxi did come I had no money to pay for it (I’d ironically spent it all getting The Pig to hospital)
5.)    I was in very low supply of water. (I don’t drive and you can’t get to shop past 7pm without driving and I didn’t have any money)
6.)    My housemate had been suffering a fever before we left, so the pain killers I knew of had departed with her. 

7.) I don’t think I need a 7^th I believe that’s quite enough.  So, like a boy scout I rationed my water, and drank some with the correct portions of salt and sugar every hour or so to replace what I’d lost via the toilet bowl. Heated up Oolong tea in the microwave (we were out of gas) in order to be able to drink the tap water, and left it at least 3 hours after each time I expelled some stomach tablets, containing a dose of paracetamol I found in the drawer, before attempting to swallow more.  Where I will admit there was a point I did a lot of crying, this was shortly after waking up at midnight to the sound of fireworks whilst wrapped around the toilet bowl in a kidney bean shape in head firmly in the waste paper basket, I feel a little braver than the 3^rd Man as I never once got to the stage of bartering with God, my overwhelming competitive nature held tight to that one, even sickness can be a game. (Not the most fun one mind you and I do hope the 3^rd Man is okay, I feel your pain buddy)

At some stage on the eve of New Years Day the vomiting passed and when chronic cystitis (due to my genius water rationing) and fever crazed madness had kicked in (By fever driven madness I can assure you twas nothing short of this, I turned momentarily into a rather delirious, immobile version of Lara Croft. In a fit of worry, caused by a ludicrous nightmare, I convinced myself that the stalker my housemate and I accumulated could sense I was home alone, I will explain the God awful man later, so with expert prowess, so as not to be seen in the nude from any of the windows,  I took all the sharp objects from kitchen and with ninja like stealth and precision hid them all over my room so I was never more than 2 leaps away from a weapon, [due to being at deaths door, this was a guess rather than a tested theory any actual leaping could only end in transforming into a pile of unconscious matter on the tiled floor] the largest knife resided in the bathroom, in case there was call to attack through a locked door. I must have assumed at this stage the high temperature gave way to superhuman strength where I could drive blunt cutlery through a hardwood finish? You know how you get in the throngs of 38+? I need not explain myself.)  I came to the conclusion rather than bartering with ‘The All High’ I would sulk with him for mocking me so harshly. I decided, as he was only joking with me, I was out of the danger zone as far as choking on my mystery stomach bile when under the influence of heavy sedatives and ingested 50mg of Amytripatlene, BOSCHOK, lubly jubly job done! No need to lift so much as a spork in self defense!

When I awoke I thought it best to leave the flat. Although in hindsight I didn’t put a single knife back in rightful place. That ought to case at least mild confusion if I’m not the first to return.

Today is the 2^nd of January. It’s 3:22pm. In order to complete my detailed plan of escapology one would have to have landed by now or at least be well underway and the fever has by no means finished with me. I’ve allowed the heathen beast the best part of 2 days (or is it 3, I don’t have the foggiest?) of my holiday it shall have no more, mark my words!

I didn’t catch a plane, I caught a bus. A 40THB, half an hour bus to get here, here is undoubtedly where I am now. Why do we feel the need to explore miles away from our doorsteps, when the truth is we might feel more at peace with our lives if we truly got to know where it is we actually live? To know beauty is within arms reach would surely be equally as satisfying reaching middle age and running gun hoe through Egypt wearing preposterous white cotton lungies on a rented Camel? As a child in your home town or village you have an unquenchable desire to explore, to conquer every square inch of your environment, behind the sofa, the back of the cupboards, abandoned houses, abandoned boxes, holes in hedges, holes in tree, holes in socks, hole is walls, the back very of your mouth, the furthest point inside your nose, inside a friends nose, up the dog’s nose, under the rug anywhere that seemed a little foreign or unknown that could potentially yield some grand new adventurous discovery. (I will add after writing this that  the opposite side to my argument is men who keep firm hold of those desires in adulthood have a high potential of being part of the Bush Dynasty, so there is a fine line to my point.) 

When you grow up you move away, and then you move again, but you don’t really spend enough time behind the sofa or under the rug to really get a feel for the place. Yes you redecorate, add a touch of you, at least a throw rug here and there from your travels, you visit the odd pub or two until you find the one you like, the odd a club, a restaurant here and there and a stroll when you’re not too busy or too tired. When do we stop looking behind obvious things for other things? What's behind your sofa? Could be Narnia, could be the TV remote, or at least the batteries a few forgotten keys, some earring backs and some dull coppers, once even they were treasures. 

Do we ever stop yearning to find these things? Is it just that once you have explored your fair share of nasal pathways and yielded the same glistening gob of results you assume each path leads to goo and give up? 

Having once managed to squeeze 5 whole pieces of sweetcorn into one small toddler sized nostril (my own I hasten to add) my mother, father and I (and whoever else aided in holding me down) have firsthand knowledge that the fascinating inexplicable missing link between solid and liquid is not all you’ll ever find up there, sometimes there may be a golden nugget. Yes, I know I had a hand in the nuggets residing in the particular magical cavity, but that’s my point. You have got to put something different in to get something different out.  

 
So now I’m alone in Sri Racha in a rickety old wooden hut built over the sea, with a bed shaped like an old donkey’s back and my very own navy blue hole in the floor, listening to the sea lapping at the stilts of the hut like an excitable puppy yapping at your feet, and I truly am in a paradise of sorts.

2013 has begun...