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...