MANICHAEAN
11-23-2017, 06:30 AM
Taxi 83910. Driver Adisak Bumrongmong dropped me outside the Peninsula Hotel in Bangkok at 1 pm. Bell boys & sleek suited staff giving the customary "wai"greeting to all new arrivals. Manners, unlike in some Western capitals, is invariably apparent in the Far East.
From there it was but a short hop by boat across the Chao Phraya to Jacks Bar on the south side. The encompassing ambient temperature alone, was justification for three heavily loaded, iced gin and tonics to assist the digestion of a plate of crispy stir fry chicken with cashew nuts. Waves of a relatively substantial energy, carved out from passing river traffic crashed into the extended and somewhat dubious wooden structure of this establishment; while what seemed like battalions of Chinese tourists executed overhead selfie shots from extended sticks to prove later, (to whoever was interested), that there they were on film, even if devoid of actual locational stimulus.
By 2 pm I was loosely relaxed in the fuzzy haze that is an incumbent facet in the art of alcohol appreciation. All modern age irritations were for the moment put aside.
Perhaps in a way, it was a form of fall back to a second line defence; as earlier I had at the airport seen off the Vietnamese girl friend back to Saigon. Ten days of honey honey is enough to sate the appetites of even the most dedicated Lothario. But for the sake of appearances let's agree that it was a retreat according to plan in the best of British traditions.
Not that the last week had been without incident on the wider international field: Mugabe beat God to the punch and resigned in Zimbabwe, whilst Trump surprisingly was quite muted from his usual shenanigans. The most thankful de-focus of news revolved around tales of sexual harassment . We had had; film producers, actors and politicians. It was really only a question of time before reports emerged from our CNN special correspondent of sheep being compromised in deepest Wales. Oh, and we must not forget Brexit where certain devious foreigners located south of Calais, still strutted the stage like an ineffectual rerun of Peter Sellers doing Inspector Cloussou in the Pink Panther.
Anyway, I digress, so back to the crux of this tale and time for that other much to be appreciated fixture of the Land of Smiles, namely the "Thai massage." Oh to lay back in a large comfortable leather armchair having your legs and feet; kneaded, stretched, poked and contorted with warm oil by a slim Asian lady, is not to be sneered at as somehow shady. In fact it takes a bit of getting used to, (implicitly therein gaining integrity,) especially when they start to crack your toe joints, or apply pressure with a pointed stick to some part you are least expecting. But, as you jump up in your seat, they smile indulgently and ask "Ok?" Who cannot, but be charmed?
From there it was but a short hop by boat across the Chao Phraya to Jacks Bar on the south side. The encompassing ambient temperature alone, was justification for three heavily loaded, iced gin and tonics to assist the digestion of a plate of crispy stir fry chicken with cashew nuts. Waves of a relatively substantial energy, carved out from passing river traffic crashed into the extended and somewhat dubious wooden structure of this establishment; while what seemed like battalions of Chinese tourists executed overhead selfie shots from extended sticks to prove later, (to whoever was interested), that there they were on film, even if devoid of actual locational stimulus.
By 2 pm I was loosely relaxed in the fuzzy haze that is an incumbent facet in the art of alcohol appreciation. All modern age irritations were for the moment put aside.
Perhaps in a way, it was a form of fall back to a second line defence; as earlier I had at the airport seen off the Vietnamese girl friend back to Saigon. Ten days of honey honey is enough to sate the appetites of even the most dedicated Lothario. But for the sake of appearances let's agree that it was a retreat according to plan in the best of British traditions.
Not that the last week had been without incident on the wider international field: Mugabe beat God to the punch and resigned in Zimbabwe, whilst Trump surprisingly was quite muted from his usual shenanigans. The most thankful de-focus of news revolved around tales of sexual harassment . We had had; film producers, actors and politicians. It was really only a question of time before reports emerged from our CNN special correspondent of sheep being compromised in deepest Wales. Oh, and we must not forget Brexit where certain devious foreigners located south of Calais, still strutted the stage like an ineffectual rerun of Peter Sellers doing Inspector Cloussou in the Pink Panther.
Anyway, I digress, so back to the crux of this tale and time for that other much to be appreciated fixture of the Land of Smiles, namely the "Thai massage." Oh to lay back in a large comfortable leather armchair having your legs and feet; kneaded, stretched, poked and contorted with warm oil by a slim Asian lady, is not to be sneered at as somehow shady. In fact it takes a bit of getting used to, (implicitly therein gaining integrity,) especially when they start to crack your toe joints, or apply pressure with a pointed stick to some part you are least expecting. But, as you jump up in your seat, they smile indulgently and ask "Ok?" Who cannot, but be charmed?