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MOBI VIGNETTES

MARDIE (Part 4)

The next day’s plan was a rerun of my first full day in New York, except that I didn’t see Mardie for lunch, as she told me she had a prior appointment.

So I spent the day doing the sights of New York and duly ensconced myself in the lobby of Mardie’s office building at the appointed hour.

I waited…. and waited….probably an hour all told, before she finally appeared at the lift door. I could have sworn I saw her swiftly withdraw her hand with the guy standing next to her as they exited the lift, but maybe I had imagined it. My mind had been creating all kinds of painful scenarios while I had been sitting in the lobby wondering what had become of her.

Mardie caught sight of me and scampered over to where I was sitting, full of apologies about working late and also full of smiles, which I hadn’t seen much of since my arrival in the USA.

To my total surprise she actually gave me a public kiss on my lips, most unusual for her, but as I savoured the kiss, licking my lips, I detected the distinct taste of alcohol, and as I made to give her of hug, my suspicions were confirmed; she had been drinking.  But not in the office surely – and if she had a drink at lunchtime, it would have long since dissipated from her breath.

I kept my thoughts to myself, but as we walked towards the street exit, I looked around, and asked her if there was more than one block of elevators. Without thinking, she said “yes” and pointed to the other end of the lobby. Then she asked? “Why?”

“Oh…no reason, I just wondered… after all it’s a big building.”

She stopped walking and gave me a long hard look. “Mobi, are you trying to have a fight?”

“Me…no…of course not, come on, it’s nothing.”

Mardie followed me in silence, but as we approached the subway entrance, she informed me that she was feeling very tired and we would go straight back to her apartment tonight, and buy a couple of “TV meals” on the way.

She reverted back to her stony silence, and I was left to my own thoughts. They weren’t very good thoughts either. I decided that she had probably lied to me and had been out for a drink with someone, after work, and had then sneaked back to her office in the other lift, which was out of sight from where I had been sitting. Why else would she smell of alcohol, and why would she turn so angry when I asked her about another elevator in her building.

Even in those far off, naïve days, I understood that for many women, and certainly Mardie, the best form of defence was attack. Had I had got a bit too near the mark for Mardie’s comfort?

We stopped off at a corner grocery storm around the corner from her building, and duly arrived back at her building, still in silence.

When we sat down to eat our meal I couldn’t stand it any longer and broached the subject of her late arrival after work. I suggested that she may have gone out for a drink, as I could smell the alcohol on her breath.

For a long time, she said nothing, but finally she put down her knife and fork, turned to look at me, and gave me a weak smile.

“Mobi, you have to understand that I am not a nun. Surely you cant’ think that I wouldn’t have any dates since I left London and returned to New York?

“Well, no, of course not, but I didn’t expect you would have a date while I was here, and especially when I was waiting for you at your office. I was sitting there, waiting for you and you were out, boozing it up with another man!”

The anger came to the surface again and I could see she was becoming increasingly irritated with the direction of my remarks.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

“Mardie, don’t you understand how much I’ve missed you? How much I love you? I’ve been counting the days to when I would see you again, ever since the very day you left London.

“I’ve flown half way across the world, just to spend a few days with you, and you have barely made me welcome, hardly a kiss – except that drunken one this evening! And now you top it all, you stand me up, go out canoodling with some office hunk and lie to me to boot!”

She was furious.

“OK, I admit I went out for a drink – but I wasn’t boozing it up, nor was I canoodling with an office hunk. If you must know, my boss took me out for a quick drink because he wanted to offer me a new job – a promotion, with more money! OK? you stupid, fucking limey! And by the way, you might think you’re in love with me, but you’re not. You’re too young, too stupid. You know nothing about love! And I tell you buster, I most certainly do not love you!”

With that she stormed into her bedroom and locked the door, leaving her half eaten meal still on the table.

I was distraught – I had screwed up big time and had no idea how to repair the damage.

I spent another sleepless night. The following day was Saturday, and Mardie wouldn’t be going to work. I had no idea what was going to happen between us.

As before, I finally fell asleep just before dawn, and by the time I came round, Mardie had been up for ages and was busy cooking breakfast. Her flat mate was also there, helping her.

Mardie behaved as though the previous evening’s row had never happened, and I immediately started to feel a bit better.

She cooked a lovely breakfast and as the three of us sat down to eat, she gave me a warm smile and announced the plans for the day.

We had been invited by a friend, to his house for an early evening meal – following which, he was going to drive us up state to Bear mountain, where we would go ice skating.

This sounded fine to me, except for the fact that I had never been ice skating in my life.

I began to think that we had put the unpleasantness of the previous evening behind us.

Things started quite well, despite the fact that Mardie’s friend was a six foot four, sixteen stone hunk, with a really swish, huge American auto. He looked down on me, literally, and welcomed me to his country and asked me what I did for a living. I told him and returned the query.

He looked at me and smiled, and said carefully in his all New York accent:

“I’m a Lorry driver. That’s what you limeys call them don’t you? Lorries?”

I smiled shyly and agreed he was correct.

Somehow, this little exchange seemed to put me at a psychological disadvantage, and from then on Chuck Jr, (yes of course he had to be a “Chuck Jr”), seemed to take charge of me and the day.

The three of us took the lift to the car park, where I was directed to the back seat and Mardie sat up front with Chuck Jr, even though there would have been more than enough room for the three of us in the front seat of Chuck’s enormous ‘auto’.

But it seemed that Chuck Jr wanted to share some secrets with Mardie and he kept talking to her in a low voice, which I couldn’t make out, and Mardie would respond with delighted giggles.

The first stop was the supermarket, where Chuck Jr did his food shopping for our forthcoming meal. Thence to Chuck’s impressive pad, where he and Mardie got to work on preparing the food.

Of course it couldn’t be anything else but enormous T-Bone steaks and the trimmings. In spite of the freezing weather, Chuck cranked up the Barbeque out on his balcony and braved the elements to cook up our repast.

During the process of overcooking the steaks, Chuck Jr. produced a bottle of malt whiskey from his bar and asked me if I would like a snifter. He said he had bought the bottle especially for me, as he knew I was a limey, and intimated that he would be offended if I didn’t join him.

I was feeling somewhat intimidated, not to say quite miserable, at the way the day was developing.  I was was worryingly aware of the obvious chemistry between Chuck Jr. and Mardie; so I actually welcomed the idea of a drink, thinking that it would help to relax me.

Chuck poured an enormous ‘snifter’ into a tumbler with ice, while at the same time telling me that he knew I wouldn’t want anything added to spoil the taste of the pure malt liquor.  He had this way of telling me what I should do.

I took a large swig at the snifter, as did Chuck Jr. from his own glass. I wasn’t going to let him get the better of me in the drinking stakes.

That might well have been the biggest single mistake I made on my trip to New York.

I could hold my drink, and as I have written elsewhere, was already on my way to being a serious drinker, but I wasn’t yet in Chuck Jr.’s league. He downed his glass in two gulps, so I did the same. Refill followed refill, with Chuck periodically rushing outside to tend to the steaks for a few minutes, before returning to down yet another “snifter’ and looking at me to do likewise, which of course I did.

By the time the meal was served, I was already well on the way to being extremely pissed, and the wine that was served with the food only added  to my already unsteady state.

Chuck Jr. appeared to be stone sober – and probably was, by his drinking standards.

The meal was finally over and we adjourned back to the car for the late afternoon journey to Bear Mountain.

The seating arrangements were the same as before, except that I noticed through my drunken haze that Chuck Jr. kept putting arm around Mardie on the front bench seat, and drove the car with a single hand on the wheel.

I was feeling so drunk by this time that I was almost past caring, and then the combination of a sleepless night; countless snifters of malt whiskey, followed by a belly full of T-bone steak all conspired to send me immediately into a deep drunken sleep.

I awoke as we drove into the car park of the ice skating centre. We were way up in the mountains and the temperature was well below zero, and snow had settled all around.

I felt dreadful. I was still drunk and had a terrible headache.

I staggered after Mardie and Chuck Jr. as they entered the building, and looked forward to finding a suitable seat to lie down on and continue my sleep.

But my nemesis was having none of it. Chuck Jr. and Mardie exhorted me to follow them to the skate hire counter. I protested that I had never skated before, and that I wasn’t feeling too good, but they would have none of it. They more or less pushed me toward the counter and asked me my shoe size, and before I knew it I was putting on my first (and last) pair of ice skates.

(I should add that I had never even been on roller skates, so I had absolutely no skating balance whatsoever.)

I gingerly followed them onto the ice. It was bloody freezing, and no sooner had my skates hit the ice, than I went flying. Bruised but still conscious, Chuck Jr. and Mardie took me by the arms and pulled me up and attempted to skate with me along the perimeter of the rink.

I must have looked absolutely ridiculous as I was being held up by my two companions and my feet were going in every which direction, as though they had lives of their own.

After a few minutes Chuck became weary with this game, and let go of my arm and skated away, showing one and all his skating prowess.

I almost hit the decks again, but Mardie saved me, and gently helped me towards the edge of the ice where I grabbed the barrier as though my life depended on it.

Mardie spent a further few minutes trying to coax me back onto the ice, and gave me some brief instructions on how to stay upright, but every time I let go of the barrier, within seconds I was flat on my back.

Then Mardie grew weary of this inept Englishman, and she too, sped away to join Chuck Jr. who was doing what looked like pirouettes in the middle of the ice.

I tried a few more times to re-commence my career as an ice skater, but each time I achieved the same result, with ever more bruises, so finally I gave up the unequal battle and virtually crawled my way onto dry ground, where I sat down on the nearest bench and heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

Never again, in my whole life would I venture onto an ice skating rink.

I removed my skates, and all of a sudden I felt a pain in my feet that quickly became excruciating. My feet were killing me. Looking down I could see that both feet had blood oozing through two my layers of socks. I was truly in a fine, bloody mess.

I sat there for probably an hour while Chuck Jr. and Mardie enjoyed themselves on the ice, no doubt laughing together at the helpless incompetent limey who had come with them.

By the time they came back to me, my head felt it was about to explode and I was in a pretty bad state. But I still had a bit of British “stiff upper lip” left in my soul, so I didn’t let on that I felt ill, nor did I tell them that my feet were bathed in blood and hurting like hell. I had put my shoes back on and the blood was barely visible.

Unfortunately my nightmare day wasn’t yet over.

I hobbled back to the car, slid into my back seat position and lay down to get some desperately needed sleep.

We must have been about half way home when I woke with a start, and before I knew what was happening, I puked up – all over myself and all over Chuck Jr.’s beautiful, shiny car.

Chuck Jr. was not impressed. Of course it was mainly the booze, plus a stomach full of undigested food plus all the other unpleasant things that had been going on in my body that evening.

But I told them that it was just the food that had somehow disagreed with me, not wishing them to know that on top of all my other failings, I couldn’t hold my booze.

It transpired that Chuck Jr. was more solicitous to my welfare than my erstwhile lover, and he produced tissues and swabs and helped me clean up my mess as best as we were able and then we continued our journey back to Queens and thence to Mardie’s  apartment. The smell was overpowering, but no-one was saying anything – especially Mardie, who kept a stony silence throughout the journey.

We finally made it back, and I staggered into the lift, smelling like the worst down and out from the Bowery.

Once back in Mardie’s home, I felt sick again and barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up yet again. I was in a terrible state Most of you have been there at some point in your lives so you will know how I felt. I managed to crawl back into my room, but the room was spinning around and I felt worse than ever.

Then I threw up again, on the floor of the bedroom. Mardie came near the room and asked me if I was OK? I replied in the affirmative, and she slammed the door and disappeared to spend the night with her flat mate.

I lay there in my own mess for a while, and then gathered sufficient strength, to return to the bathroom, get hold of some tissues and clean up the floor as best as I was able. Then I collapsed again and fell into a very long, very drunken sleep.

This romantic holiday that I had been looking forward to for so long had turned into a disastrous nightmare.

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Last Saturday I drove back from Roi Et to Pattaya. It is a journey of over seven hundred kilometers and took me eight hours, including a few brief stops. It’s a very long drive for a single driver who is over sixty to do in one day, and I must say I don’t relish doing it too many times.

Next time, ideally, I either stop half way there, or I get Wan to share some of the driving to give me a break. Wan has her own car – with a manual gear change, would you believe, and is scared to drive my car as it is very fast and she has never driven an automatic. I will have to give her a few lessons.

We brought Jasper and Wan’s niece, Sherry with us. It was the first time that Jasper had ever seen the sea, which he first saw from my condo balcony, and he was very excited.

Yesterday, we were all very tired, still recovering from the long drive to Pattaya, and we spent a lazy few hours on the beach, before doing some shopping, and yesterday evening, I took the two girls to buy a few clothes at the  Thepprasit  market.

My drinking is still pretty much under control. To give you an example; yesterday I had two small bottles of Singha on the beach, a glass of Leo draft in Carrefour with my food in the food court, and two more small bottles of Singha at Thepprasit market while I was waiting for the girls.

So all told, I had five small beers spanning a period of eight hours. I rarely drink more than this, often less. On Friday I only had three small beers when I arrived back in Pattaya; one beer when I arrived and two more beers later, with my dinner.

Last night, when we got back to the condo, Wan asked me if I wanted another beer, but I declined, I just didn’t feel like it.

It is literally years since I have been able to drink in such a controlled manner – without any conscious effort on my part.  I can only imagine that it is my relatively relaxed state of well being with Wan that has led to this change.

I am not sure if the change in drinking habits is sustainable or whether I will gradually revert to my old ways. AA will say that what I am doing is impossible to maintain, but I am really not sure.

One thing I do know is that even this moderate amount of beer consumption has caused me to put on a lot of weight, and I am fast developing a very ugly beer belly and have trouble getting into many of my clothes.

With my medical history of diabetes, high blood pressure and coronary disease, alcohol is not good for me, in any quantity.

I have experienced slight angina pains and a general shortage of breath whenever I exert myself which is a sure sign that I need to lose weight and start taking some exercise.

So I must put my mind to this and see if I can’t just bite the bullet and stop for good. Now I have stopped going to bars it ought to be a lot easier, and as the urge to drink is not strong, maybe I should just try to knock it on the head once and for all.

Wan is as sweet as ever, (no pun intended for those who understand Thai). She can’t do enough for me, and attends to my every need. She is the first ever person who has asked me to teach her how to give me my insulin injections, in case I am unable to do so for myself. Most Thai women run a mile as soon as they see one of my needles.

As you know, I am an old, grumpy, emotionally scarred alcoholic and sometimes I am not the best of company. On a couple of occasions I have not acted in a decent way towards Wan, my selfish side coming to the fore, and each time poor Wan is so upset and even cries. Then I feel like a complete heel and beg her forgiveness and tell her what a horrible, selfish old bastard I am, and she forgives me.

In all the time we have been together, I have never seen her be in a bad mood or talk to me badly. She truly is a gem.

I am still not sure where this will all end. I am not sure I can take on a six year old boy at my time of life. On the one hand I have the utmost admiration for Wan in refusing to leave her son with her mother to raise as most single mothers do, but on the other, I am not sure if I am ready or capable of bringing up another child.

The other thing is where we will live. Wan has put so much into her home in Roi Et, and she loves it there and has so many plans for her garden and how to make her home better. All her family is there, and she wants to live there.

Yet, I just can’t see myself living there permanently – not yet any way, but I will feel bad if I force Wan to set up home in Pattaya and bring her son here, something she is willing to do, but clearly doesn’t want to do.

It is a dilemma.

MOBI VIGNETTES

MARDIE (Part 3)

The flight in the Pan Am 707 to New York was exciting and a bit scary – my very first time in a plane  which heralded a life of winging my way to almost every corner of the world, some of those ‘corners’, many, many times in the years that followed.

It was about an eight hour flight, and I left in late afternoon, but still arrived at JFK that evening thanks to the time difference.

It was with some trepidation that I disembarked and made my way to the arrival hall, hoping with all my might that Mardie would be there to meet me.

She didn’t let me down – there she was dressed up in her winter finest – The temperature was below zero – and was accompanied by another girl, who looked about her age.

I was greeted without any great display of affection, which I put down to the presence of her friend, and was then introduced to Sally, her flat mate.

Mardie led us out of the airport and thence to the New York subway to take the relatively short journey across Queens, the New York borough where JFK was located and also where she lived.

From the subway exit, it was a ten minute walk to her apartment, and although I was carrying quite a lot of luggage, it wasn’t a problem – shared between the three of us.

I was feeling very tired and not a little frustrated  at Mardie’s insistence on small talk with Sally, and barely a word about having missed me or any or showing any signs that she still had feelings for me.

She had a nice, modern apartment on the sixth floor. It had two bedrooms, was centrally heated, and was well furnished with comfortable modern furniture.

I had assumed that I would be sharing a bedroom with Mardie, but she had other ideas.

I was shown into a sort of small anti-room, which had connecting doors to her bedroom and the bathroom. It was there that I was given a mattress to unroll and set out onto the floor and which was to be my bed for the next two weeks.

I was feeling ever more dismayed at the turn of events, when Mardie capped it by informing me that she was going to bed as she had to get up early the following morning. She had to make it to work at her office in Manhattan by nine ‘o clock.

I had assumed she would be taking some time off to show me around, but not a bit of it. What on earth was I to do, all alone in Queens, with my seemingly ex-girl friend at work all day?

Mardie disappeared into the bathroom, and with a brief smile and a “See you in the morning”, she went into her bedroom, and pointedly locked the door.

I was very tired, physically and emotionally, but lay awake for half the night, wondering what the hell I had let myself in for. I was madly in love with her, hadn’t seen her for four months, and had been greeted and treated like a distant friend. Not a kiss, not a cuddle; nothing.

I must have eventually drifted asleep from pure exhaustion, for the next thing I remember is Mardie leaning over me, fully dressed in a smart, matching top and mini-skirt, giving me a gentle shake.

She said that she was off to work, and told me to rest up and help myself to any food I wanted in the apartment.

I sleepily asked her when I would see her, and she replied that if I wanted to, I could meet her for lunch. This immediately perked up my interest and my mood, and I asked her where she worked.

She gave me a subway map and a map of Manhattan, and marked the location of her office building and gave me her address. She showed me which subway station to go to, and said I wouldn’t have any problems finding her office building as it was just down the road from the Rockefeller Centre.

With that she gave me a big kiss on my cheek and said she would be waiting in the lobby of her office building at one o’clock. A bright smile from the door of my ‘bedroom’, and she was gone.

I immediately started to feel better about things and gave the maps a quick perusal, realising that it should be a relatively simple matter to find my way to her office, provided I could remember the way to the subway entrance.

Maybe things weren’t as bad as I had thought, so with rising spirits I showered, shaved and found something to eat, before eagerly taking the lift out of the building to head off to Manhattan. It was only ten o’clock, but I didn’t care. I wanted to get on my way.

My journey to Manhattan nearly came to a premature end when I walked out of the building and immediately lost my footing on the icy sidewalk and went down on my back with a nasty bump. I gingerly got to my feet, fearing another slip, and I now realised the entire sidewalk and road was covered in a layer of ice. It was bitterly cold, but there was no snow, just what appeared to be freezing rain. I had never seen such thing before. The rain was ice cold and it froze as soon as it hit the ground, making walking nigh on impossible.

I looked around and saw that I wasn’t the only one who was having problems keeping their balance on the treacherous surface, but also noted that most of my fellow pedestrians had rubber boots on and some even had cloth wrapped around the heels to give them a better grip on the ice. They had obviously experienced such conditions before.

It took me a quite a while to slowly edge my way to the subway, grabbing onto anything at hand as I continued  to almost lose my footing any number of times.

For the second time since I arrived in this country, I began to wonder what the hell I had let myself in for.

I still made it to the designated subway stop in Manhattan with more than an hour to spare, and having perused my tourist literature, decided to spend the spare time looking around the Rockefeller Centre.

Thank God the weather in Manhattan was dry and I didn’t have and more icy walkways to contend with. According to my map I should be close to the famous Centre, but I couldn’t see any sign of it.  I looked and looked and walked up and down the wide avenue I was in, gazing at the awe inspiring Sky Scrapers, but could see no signs showing the way to the Rockefeller Centre.

In desperation I decided to ask. The first three people I asked looked at me as if I was crazy, said they had no idea what I was talking about and walked on. Then I asked an elderly man, and he too looked at me as if I was crazy.

“The Rockefeller Centre? ” he asked me, with obvious puzzlement on his face.

“Yes,” I replied”, “Can you tell me where it is, please?”

“Buddy”, he said, “You are standing right in the middle of it!”

With that, he walked on and left me standing there, scratching my head. In truth I didn’t really know what the centre was all about. I had only glanced at the tourist book briefly, and just assumed it was some kind of building dedicated to one of New York’s famous millionaires. I pulled out the book and read further:

“Rockefeller Centre is a complex of 19 commercial buildings covering 22 acres between 48th and 51st streets in New York City. Built by the Rockefeller family, it is located in the centre of Midtown Manhattan, spanning the area between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenue.”

I now realised why everyone thought I was completely mad. I had indeed being standing at the very heart of it, and just about every building within my view was part of the Centre.

I had started to learn something about New Yorkers  -  they don’t suffer fools gladly.

I decided to find my way to Mardie’s office and leave exploring the Centre for another time, and I walked down the road a couple of blocks, hopefully in the right direction.

This time I was more successful in my map reading as there, in front of me, was the designated building. I walked into the lobby area to await Mardie’s arrival.

She came out of the lift, bright and smiling and whisked me off to lunch at a nearby, typical New York diner. She seemed much friendlier than the previous evening, and once more my spirits rose, and I decided it would only be a matter of time before the relationship returned to where we had left off in London.

I was further encouraged by Mardie suggesting that I spend the afternoon exploring New York City, suggesting some places I could get to on the subway and meeting her back at her office at six p.m. when we could go out for a meal together.

That evening, after our meal in downtown Manhattan, we returned to her apartment, and I did indeed feel that things were on the up and up. Mardie came to lie down with me on my mattress for a while and we had a little cuddle and kiss, before she went to her bedroom. Yes, for sure it wouldn’t be long before things were back to the way they were.

That night I had the soundest sleep in weeks, if not months.

It was probably the happiest I was to be during those two weeks in New York.



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When we arrived in Roi Et, last Sunday evening, Wan’s ex-husband Pete, called her. He is staying in Roi Et City with his new wife and he told Wan that he would like to see Jasper before he returned to England, early next month.

Wan told me that she never had any objections to Pete seeing his son, but that every time she agreed on a time and place, Pete would cancel out, or try to change the arrangements at the last moment. He never brought any presents for his son and hadn’t given Wan one Baht in child support, even though she had begged him to help out when she became so desperate for money.

On the other hand, Pete had bought his new lady and brand new Honda Jazz and a house in Roi Et.

Since Pete had been back in Thailand, he had seen Jasper just once, at a hotel swimming pool in Roi Et, and on that occasion he had made a big scene, shouting at Wan in front of everyone, including Jasper, and accusing her of deliberately keeping her son away from him, and accusing Jasper of not wanting to play with him when they were in the pool together.

How unreasonable of Jasper! A six year old boy who preferred to play with other six year olds rather than with an estranged forty- five year old father, who he barely knew. How unreasonable indeed!

Wan told Pete that she would bring Jasper to swim in Roi Et on Tuesday afternoon and Pete could spend some time with him there. Pete told her that he wasn’t free on Tuesday, so Wan agreed to change it to Wednesday.

Then on Tuesday Pete sent a text to Wan demanding that they change the venue to another town some sixty kilometres away.  Wan refused, and told him that she didn’t want to drive all that way and that Roi Et is much more convenient for everyone.

Pete then sent Wan an abusive text, which I saw, accusing her of being a stupid Thai bitch. Wan kept her cool, and sent him a reply which told him she would be at the pool from one p.m. on Wednesday if he wanted to see his son.

Yesterday, Wednesday, I drove Wan and Jasper to Roi Et, and when we arrived at the hotel swimming pool, at one o’clock, Wan sent a text to Pete advising him we were there.

I offered to make myself scarce for the next few hours, but Wan insisted that I stay with them, which I readily agreed to as I wanted to see this abusive fellow countryman, and to make sure he didn’t  get too far out of line with Wan or Jasper.

This was at one p.m., and by two p.m. Wan hadn’t heard from Pete so she called him. He had just woken up and shouted at her when she said they had been waiting for him for an hour. He asked her why she hadn’t told him about the appointment, which of course she had, several times.

He turned up alone about forty minutes later, saw us, completely ignored me, (which suited me just fine), and went to join Jasper in the pool.

I try not to prejudge people, especially based on their appearance, but I have to say that Pete is a small, weasel- like specimen of an Englishman with a narrow, mean-looking face, topped with the ubiquitous skin- head haircut, and obligatory body tattoos.

In spite of the age difference, he clearly was no match for the handsome, debonair, and mature Mobi, who incidentally, still sports an almost full head of hair! (And no tattoos – I think they are an abomination!).

Pete stayed for a couple of hours, at first engaging the attention of Jasper in the pool, but after a while Jasper drifted back to his friends, and Pete was left alone, watching his son splash and play.

It was after four and Jasper had had enough.  Pete also emerged from the pool, produced some oranges which he gave to Jasper, and made a quick exit on his motorcycle, after seeing us all pile into the shiny, black Mobi–BMW.

I think Wan quietly celebrated a little victory after seeing the look on Pete’s face.

All in all, a pleasant afternoon by a very picturesque pool, surrounded by shady palms, and backed up by excellent service from the pool staff who seemed to be so friendly compared to the Thais I am used to in Pattaya.

This morning, Wan and I had a long heart to heart about our future together. I told her that I was very happy with her, but that I wanted to take things very slowly. I told her that if we decided to live together on a long term basis, then I didn’t think I could move out of Pattaya just yet.

Maybe in a few years time – when I was older – but right now I felt I would be too isolated out there. I wanted to be nearer to my friends in Pattaya and Bangkok and to continue to enjoy many of the things these two cities had to offer – and I was not referring to bar girls – as they are just available in Roi Et as they are anywhere else in Thailand.  (The place is teaming with’ short time’ motels and  bungalows and brothels that masquerade as karaoke bars.)

I am not yet ready to become a farang hermit and go one hundred percent native.

I told her that i would be very happy to spend a lot of time at her house for ‘high days and holidays’ as I was very happy there, but that for the next year or two at least I wanted to remain in Pattaya.

Wan told me that she had two people in her life. One was Jasper and the other was yours truly – Mobi – and she wanted to stay with both of us and take care of us. She said that if I wanted to live in Pattaya, then she would bring Jasper to Pattaya to live with us and put him in school there.

I said that would be fine, but that in the meantime, we agreed that Jasper would continue his schooling in Roi Et until such time as I had found a house for us to live in, and until we were sure that we wanted to live together permanently. The lease on my condo expires in October, so that would appear to be the ideal time to make the big change, if we are still together.

We discussed money, and her requirements are very modest, in fact more modest than any lady I have ever set up residence with. She went through her monthly expenses, item by item, and it was apparent that she was an  extremely frugal person. I will leave it at that, but I can assure you that I’m not rushing out to add extensions to her house or to repay her mortgage. That will be a long way down the line -  if ever.

This afternoon Wan insisted in taking me into Selaphum to get a haircut. Ever since I have been with her, I have stated that I wanted to have a haircut but somehow I have never quite got round to it. My hair was getting ridiculously long and I was beginning to look like an ageing hippy.

Anyway, into Selaphum, and I parked outside the selected barbershop. There were two young men seated waiting their turn and both barbers’ chairs were occupied, but no sign of a barber. Wan told me this was the best barber shop in town, and at least it was air-conditioned. Outside it was bloody sweltering.

Wan and I sat down on the two remaining empty seats at the side of the salon. I had been sitting for an couple of minutes when I suddenly felt a trickle of ice cold water drop onto my head and down the back of my neck. I looked up, and saw we were seated underneath the air condition unit and it seemed to be leaking. I wiped my hair with my hand, gave a feeble smile and made a joke about having my hair washed as well as cut.

All were highly amused at my silly attempt at humour and I was just starting to feel pleased with myself for cracking a joke in Thai when the heavens suddenly opened, and I was soaked in gallons of freezing water, which nearly made me jump out of my skin!

Now everyone was thoroughly amused. I was jumping around all over the place shouting obscenities, and providing wonderful, pre-Sonkran amusement for the captive “Barber-shop Quartet”.

The air conditioner must have been accumulating water for hours, if not days, and it had abruptly burst and the flood had drenched poor old Mobi who was sitting directly under the torrent of freezing water.

There was still no sign of a barber, so one thoughtful customer tried to mop up the mess with some newspapers , but when he approached me, armed with soggy newspapers and  with a similar aim in mind, I waved him frantically away and told Wan that we had better find another barber.

She told me that this was the best one in town, but I said I didn’t care – I had been there at least ten minutes and hadn’t laid eyes on him, and now I had been drenched from his defective air conditioner!  And besides, there were  four people ahead of me and we would be stuck there for hours.

It transpired that Selaphum was full of barber shops, all empty, apart from the one with the gushing air conditioner and all without any discernable evidence of a barber being present.

Eventually we found a shop with a barber with no air conditioning, thank God, but no sooner had he put me in the chair and wrapped a towel around my neck than he promptly took off and left Wan and I sitting there wondering what was going on in this crazy town. I was almost ready to give up when I spotted him, sitting outside, smoking a cigarette. It was nice of him to be so thoughtful as to keep his smoke outside.

He finally finished his cigarette, re-entered the shop and just when I thought he was about to actually start working, he retrieved a small bottle from his fridge and departed once again to drink its contents. It looked like a bottle of Red Bull but I couldn’t be sure.

I remembered why I was so reluctant to go to a Thai barber.

Probably about ten minutes after I was put in the barber’s chair, he started my haircut and I have to say it was one of the best haircuts I had ever had in my life. He was a thorough professional, and he was positively painstaking in giving me an excellent trim, including using a new razor to shave my neck and cheeks.

The cost for the thirty minute haircut was forty Baht. So all’s well that ends well and if I ever come back to Selaphum I will go there again, but maybe a bit later in the afternoon – after he has had his smoke and his red Bull ‘pick me up’.

This evening I took a stroll with Wan and Jasper through her lovely village, stopping off at her mum’s house and aunt’s house on the way.

This village is different those I have been used to in Sa Kaeo and in other parts of Issan. It is clean, and the houses have been well constructed and beautifully kept. I noticed a few saloon cars dotted around which indicate a surprising level of prosperity.  The roads in the area are mainly well maintained hard tops, including the road outside Wan’s house, and even where there are dirt tops, they have been kept in immaculate condition. Trees, bushes and flowers abound, and at the village edge you can see farmers working in the fields with their cows and buffaloes.

I could do worse than retire to this peaceful and pretty part of North-eastern Thailand.

This is the very heart of Thaksin/red shirt territory and if it is ‘Thaksin’s Money’ (that is: government money distributed by Thaksin when he was Prime Minister), that has brought prosperity to this area, it is not difficult to understand why they still love him so much.

On Saturday I will return to Pattaya with Wan, jasper and Wan’s niece, Sherry and they will stay for a week or two. I am anticipating having a good time, and will enjoy taking them around the sights and amusements that Pattaya and its environs have to offer.

MOBI VIGNETTES

MARDIE (Part 2 )

Some years later, when I recalled my affair with Mardie, I understood many aspects of my relationship with her, which at the time; I don’t think I had the first inkling.

I think the relationship started to go downhill on that August bank Holiday, when we had that big bust up  when she tried to take over driving my car. Her behaviour towards me was never the same after that incident and looking back, I can see that she tried to distance herself from me, but I was too ‘head-over heels’ in love to realise what was happening.

Remember  that I had experienced a lonely , unhappy upbringing, due to my father’s domineering personality, to the extent that was totally lacking in self esteem  and was incredibly shy, especially with members of the opposite sex.

I had only recently broken free of my father’s ‘apron strings’ but my new social life as single man living in a lonely room in central London was pathetically non exisitent.

So apart from a very unhappy teenage infatuation, which due to my own ridiculous shyness became a case of unrequited love, my affair with Mardie was the first real thing, and I was already twenty one, going on twenty two.

I was emotionally immature, (probably still am), and totally inexperienced in having a relationship and keeping a woman happy. Upon reflection, I now realise that Mardie was far more mature than I was and was  more experienced with  the world at large and the lecherous men it contained. She was a very attractive young lady and by her own admittance had had many boyfriends and casual affairs before she met me.

Mardie was initially attracted to me because of my “Englishness”, which included my ‘reserve’ which was really just shyness. As the relationship developed I think she began to see that I was an emotionally immature person and that I was becoming far too serious and ‘clingy’.

Mardie was a confident, modern young lady travelling the world to have a good time and have casual affairs with young men who would take her around and wine and dine her. She wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. But I was.

As I have mentioned previously, i think that when I said goodbye to her at Heathrow, she never expected to hear or me or see me again.

For the first few weeks after Mardie’s departure, i could barely get her out of my mind. In fact she occupied my every moment to such an extent that my work started to suffer and I had to stay at the office later and later, just to keep up with my daily duties, and even then I often found my work becoming totally bogged down. Sometimes, I had to make superhuman effort to get her out of my mind and concentrate on the tasks in hand.

I would write to Mardie almost every day – long rambling epistles, declaring my undying love, and hoping that we could meet again soon and imploring her to write back to me.

Weeks went by and not a word from her. I was distraught, but there was nothing I could do. No internet in those days, and I didn’t even have her phone number.

Then, about a month after she had left, there it was on the floor of my room – an airmail letter in Mardie’s distinctive writing style. I feverishly opened it.

The letter was disappointingly brief – almost a ‘post card’ in content. She told me that she had arrived back safely, had sorted out her apartment problems and had started a new job in downtown Manhattan. That was it. No declarations of affection or love, no romantic messages of how much she missed me, nothing. It was the sort of letter one would write to a friend or acquaintance.

Despite its brevity and lack of romance, I clung to it as proof that she hadn’t forgotten me and still wanted to keep in touch.

In reality, she probably wrote it because she felt she had to do something after all the letters I had written to her, and no doubt thought that a brief, totally impersonal letter  would send me a clear message that she was no longer romantically interested in me.

However, I derived false encouragement from the fact that she had finally replied and continued to bombard her with letters, suggesting that I came to visit her for a holiday early in the New Year.

A few weeks later she wrote to me again very briefly, telling me that I was welcome to come to new York and that I was welcome to stay at her apartment.

Again, I now believe her thought process was that I had been so good to her when she was in England and taken her everywhere, including the West Country, that the least she could do in return was to offer me a place to stay in New York if I wanted to come for a holiday. I dare say she came to regret it.

It wasn’t that long since Harold Wilson had devalued the pound from its ‘pegged rate’ of two dollars eighty to the pound to a new rate of two dollars forty, and exchange control rules were being strictly enforced.

This meant that I was severely hampered by how much currency I was allowed to take with me on an overseas holiday, and because of this I started to enclose bank notes in my letters to Mardie, asking her to keep them for me until my arrival. Remarkably, I never lost a single bank note, and it gave me yet another reason to write to her – all too frequently.

Flights from London to New York were still very expensive in those far off days – there were no budget airlines, or even budget airfares. All airfares were set and controlled by IATA and all air tickets were fully exchangeable to any other airline, as all airlines charged the same price. It was so different from today’s free market.

I couldn’t afford the price of the ticket, but a kind lady in my company’s personnel department arranged a special “air ticket loan’ for me, which I had to repay by instalments over a six month period, and enabled me to book my flight on Pan Am, scheduled to depart in early January.

Although I had made a few trips to France, Germany and other European countries by sea ferry, I had never flown before, and it was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that I impatiently awaited the day when I would fly out across the Atlantic Ocean and once more be reunited with my beloved.

Deep down I was very concerned as to the reception I would receive. It hadn’t escaped even my myopic attention that something wasn’t quite right with the way Mardie had been writing to me. I really didn’t know what to expect when I arrived at JFK, but I hoped to God that at the very least she would be there, waiting for me.

Well it’s time to lay it all out in my blog and see what you folks think, so today I will tell you all about Wan and her background.

The only thing I ask is: please do as I do when I read blogs or statements written by people on the net. I take them at face value and assume they are telling the truth, and the facts that they present are correct to the best of their knowledge.

Of course this may not always be the case, but to assume that a particular writer is being economical with the truth, or to immediately assume that he/she is being lied to and cheated is simply opening a cynical can of worms that gets you nowhere. In my opinion it is better to accept the facts as presented until such time as they prove to be incorrect.

I met Wan about two weeks ago, and yes, of course, I met her at a bar. But here’s the thing. Wan had been brought to Jomtien that afternoon by her Aunt to work in a bar which was owned by a friend of her Aunt’s; a katoey who lived in the same village in Isaan.

The bar was one of my regular late night-haunts,  situated in one of the Sois off Jomtien’s beach Road, and was a large place with many tables and chairs and was chock a block full of Katoeys together with three or four ‘genuine’ ladies who made up the staff complement. It was a cheap, fun place that played an incredible selection of eclectic music, much of which I hadn’t heard for decades.

I wandered in there one night at around o0ne o’clock, ordered a beer at the bar (only my third of the night), and one of the young ladies sidled over to me to chat me up for a drink. I was about to indulge her when I caught sight of a lady, dressed in a very unflattering, frumpy dress that was flapping around her ankles, and who appeared to be in a state of some distress. Tears were streaming down her face. She was accompanied by two of the working girls, and they were leading her towards the staircase that led to the ‘dormitory’ above the bar.

I asked the girl sitting with me what was going on, and she called out and told the girls to bring the distressed lady over to me.

“New girl, just arrived today”, she told me.

I wasn’t very interested in a distraught, tear stained lady, dressed in clothes that looked like they had been in her broom cupboard for forty years, but being the decent guy that I am, I didn’t have the heart to send her packing, and said ‘hello’, with a smile.

She looked at me with a frightened look on her face, and said nothing. I told her to sit down, and asked her name. She was Wan, and the first thing about her that surprised me about her was her good, grammatically correct English.

I bought her an orange juice and asked her why she was so upset. She told me she had just arrived from Roi Et in the late afternoon, was exhausted from the twelve hour journey and was terrified of working in a bar and wasn’t sure she could go through with it. She said she had never been in a ‘girlie bar’ in her life, and even during the brief time she had been there with the other girls, their behaviour and language had shocked her.

I reassured her that she would soon get used to it and suggested that she get some sleep, for I could see that she could barely keep her eyes open, whereupon she started crying again. She told me that all the girls and katoeys slept together on the floor of the large room above the bar, and there wasn’t even a single fan there to cool the room down. She said she was terrified of sleeping in such a place and amongst such company.

I too was feeling sleepy, and after a while I said to Wan, “Look, would you like to come home with me. I will pay the bar fine, but I don’t want to have sex. I just want you to have a decent night’s sleep in a comfortable bed, and tomorrow you will feel a lot better.

She looked at me with wide, incredulous eyes. “Really? You mean it?”, she asked me in English.

“Yes, really”, I replied.

“But why?”

“Because I feel sorry for you”.

“Oh Mobi, you have a good heart.”

“No Wan, i have a very black heart, but I just don’t like to sleep alone”

For the first time Wan smiled, and her face lit up. I realised that while she was no great beauty, she was quite pretty, especially now she had stopped crying and was even giving me the occasional smile.

I took her back to the condo, and she collapsed on my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

The next day, and in the days that followed she told me all about herself and what had happened to her.

Wan was thirty one, and came from a small village, about forty kilometres east of Roi Et City.

When she finished school she used to work by making clothes at home and then travelled with her cousin to Chatuchak market in Bangkok on weekends where they would set up a stall and sell them.

About seven years ago she met an Englishman in Chatuchak market who started to ‘chat her up’. One thing led to another, and they became lovers, eventually getting married in Bangkok.

Her husband, Pete, was a “white van man”; a self employed builder/decorator and he flew back and forth to Thailand to be with Wan, as his money permitted.

After a while, Pete obtained a visa for Wan and took her back to England where they set up home in Oxford with Pete’s aged mother who had a house there.

It was after they moved to England that Wan’s nightmare began.

Pete’s behaviour to Wan and to his own mother was appalling. He was a heavy drinker, and every night he would come home, get drunk and then start shouting at Wan and his mother, and abuse them both in the foulest language. He would complain constantly to Wan about the food she cooked for him. It was either too hot, too cold, or just generally no good, and he would often hurl the plate across the room at her.

She would never see him on weekends, when he would spend the two days with his friends, mainly getting drunk in the pubs of Oxford.

He never gave her any money for herself, and soon after she arrived, she had to work at home for many hours a day, wrapping charity Christmas cards just so that as she had some money to spend on essentials.

Wan was obliged to walk over two miles to the nearest shops as Pete never took her, and remember that this was a Thai girl, first time out of Thailand and completely unused to the vagaries of the English climate.

Her ‘Living Hell’ became instantly worse, when one day she discovered she was pregnant. She had been in England about a year, and as soon as her body began to fill out, Pete’s behaviour grew even worse and he would abuse her on a daily basis, referring to her as a ‘Thai Prick’ amongst other disgusting epithets.

After the baby’s birth, things failed to improve, and he made her sit with her son in the back of his van when they had to go somewhere, such as the clinic. Wan remembers how he made her lie on the floor whenever a police car came near them, as it was illegal to put a woman and baby in the back of van without any proper, secured seating.

But for most of the time, she had to walk, pushing her baby in the pram – often for miles – in the cold, wind, rain and even snow.

Pete spent less and less time at home, but when the baby was a few months old, he decided to take them all to Thailand for a holiday. They went to Phuket, and every day Wan was forced to stay in the hotel room with her son while Pete went out to the bars all night and had fun in with the ladies of the night.

Then in January 2005, Wan’s grandmother died and she had to go back to Thailand to help sort out things and to attend the funeral. It was agreed that she would go first and Pete would follow later. In the event, Pete did follow but stayed in Bangkok and refused to travel down to Roi Et.

Suspecting nothing, Wan took a bus to Bangkok and found her husband shacked up with another woman who he had met in Bangkok. Wan was devastated, for in spite of his harsh treatment of her, she never dreamed he would do something like this, especially when she had a young baby to look after. They had a huge row, and Wan returned to her mother’s home in Roi Et.

Later she returned to England as she did not know what else to do, and Pete eventually followed, minus his wedding ring and with some marks on his wrist indicating he had been through a traditional Thai marriage ceremony.

Things went from bad to worse between the two and there were terrible fights every day. Pete’s mother was also distraught at her son’s behaviour, and told Wan that she wished he had never been born.

Pete started to became violent, so on advice from a friend, Wan went to consult a lawyer about what could be done to restain him, and when he found out, Pete became even more violent, accusing her of involving the police in his life. He absolutely terrified her.

So Wan settled into a life of misery and despair, and was totally intimidated by her husband into accepting the status quo.

Finally after nine months of sheer hell, Pete’s mother succeeded in persuading her son to let Wan and the baby go back to Thailand. She gave Wan twenty thousand pounds of her own money to start a new life with her baby son in Thailand. In September, 2005 Wan came back to Thailand to live.

Her mother-in-law’s twenty thousand pounds was changed into one million four hundred thousand Baht and Wan went back to her mother’s village, bought a small, second hand car, then a piece of land next to her Aunt’s house upon which she  built a lovely two bedroom house for herself  and her son to live in.

Next she went to Bangkok and bought some clothes at wholesale prices in the markets there and took them back to Bangkok and opened a little dress shop.

At first the business was quite successful, but as soon as the recession hit, her business dried up. She was forced to close no less than three times, but each time she doggedly tried again before her remaining money dried up completely .

Desperate for money to feed her and her son and pay his school fees, she reluctantly mortgaged her house, borrowing forty thousand baht from a local bank, frantically hoping that something would turn up before the money ran out.

Late last year her husband contacted her and asked her for a divorce as he wanted to get married again. She agreed to this and asked him if he could help out a bit with her son’s expenses. Pete was now living in nearby Roi Et city with his new girl friend. He had bought his new lady a house and a car and demanded to have access to his son, but he refused all entreaties to help out with any financial contribution to Wan’s family.

I told Wan that she should have engaged a lawyer in England to seek a divorce settlement, and it may not even be too late to go to court in the UK and sue for child maintenance.  (Her son is a UK citizen with an English passport.) But she is just not interested. She bears no resentment and wants to get on with her life.

So at the end of her tether and not knowing what else to do, she agreed to accompany her aunt to Pattaya to see if she could earn a bit of money to pay her expenses. She had already borrowed ten thousand baht from her mother, who was in no position to lend such a large sum.

The forgoing story, while not typical, is just another of the thousands of genuine ‘hard luck’ stories that drive innocent village girls into the sex trade. Some take to it, like duck to water, and thoroughly enjoy their life in the flesh pots of Bangkok Pattaya and elsewhere. Others find a way to tolerate their wretched exisitance and search desperately for the right man who will take them out of it all. A few positively hate it and never manage to adapt to this way of life.

Through the years I have seen many a girl come down from the provinces to work  in a bar – some very pretty – only to pack up their things at the end of the month and make the sad journey back home, even poorer than when they left, but unable to make the required transition into a ‘lady of the night’.

I often used to wonder what became of these poor souls, as most of them had starving mouths to feed back home.

There is no doubt that Wan was one of these, and she told me that she was so shocked at what she had seen and heard in just her few brief hours in the bar, and could never go back, no matter what. Apart from anything else she was terrified.

I took pity on her, intending to let her stay with me for a few days, before putting on a bus back to Roi Et with a bit of cash in her pocket, but it didn’t work out that way.

Wan is a lovely, kind, intelligent, sensitive girl, with a wonderful manner and sense of humour. There is not an ounce of malice in her whole body. I have never seen her angry about anything and since she has been with me she has never been moody or talked bad about anyone or anything.

She even tells me about her husband in a very matter of fact way, with virtually no emotion, and insists that she no longer bears a grudge and has put it all behind her.

When she smiles, she is positively beautiful, and she lights up the whole room.

I have been angry a couple of times, but not at her, and on each occasion she cried. I tried to assure her that I was not angry with her but she is such a sensitive soul, she can’t stand it. I felt so guilty, and I now try to be on my best behaviour at all times – not easy for a drunken old sod like me.

She is without doubt the nicest girl I have ever had a relationship with, and I mean ‘nice’ in the real sense.

Everything she says and everything she does is ‘nice’. She has only been with me a short time, yet she is more solicitous of my health problems – particularly my diabetes – than any woman has ever been before.

I know that some of you cynics out there will insist that it is just an act she is putting on, and when the time is ripe she will wheel out her demands, but if you spent just a few hours with her, you would know that what I say is true. I can feel it with every bone in my body.

So we drove up to Selaphum, some forty kilometers east of Roi Et city on Sunday, and I met her family consisting of her seven year old son, Jasper, her mother, two aunts, and a niece – all females you will note. Wan lives in her own house with her son and her mother and aunts all have their own houses in the same area of the village.

The house is even better than I was expecting. The walled garden, complete with front gate and driveway  is full of flowers, fruit trees and shrubs, which Wan has grown herself, and there is nice little lawn, with two little puppies scampering around  to complete the impression that much of this garden took shape in Wan’s imagination when she lived in rural  England.

The house itself is quite roomy, and there are a lot of little decorative touches which one rarely sees in a Thai house. There is large, tiled, well furnished lounge, two good sized bedrooms with air conditioning, a kitchen and large western style toilet, complete with hot water shower.

It is a very pleasant home and I will have no problems staying here until next Saturday when I will return to Pattaya with Wan, Jasper and Sherry, (Wan’s niece who is on summer holiday from university). They will stay with me for a week or so and enjoy the delights of Pattaya and its environs.

I haven’t been so happy for a long, long time. Wan’s family are all lovely, thoughtful, polite people, and the village is clean and mercifully free of noise and drunken men. At night the only sound is the birds in the trees and the occasional gecko.

The first night I was here I got a little drunk, as I was exhausted after my long day at the wheel and over-did the beer a bit. But it was only four bottles. On Monday I just had two bottles and slept like a baby for over ten hours. Today, as yet, I haven’t had a single beer and I don’t feel like one.

On Monday a car load of us went to Yasuthorn to do a bit of food shopping. Then we all had lunch at an MK restaurant in a large Big C complex.

If my largesse on the day out was the proverbial ‘farang cash cow’ spewing out some money, then the cynics are probably correct.  But it really didn’t amount to much and I was happy to do it.

Today, I drove Wan, Jasper, Wan’s mum and two friends from the village to Chedi Chai Mongkol temple in Nong Phok District. It was about a ninety minute drive, and was well worth it.

It is a very stunning place, situated at the top of a sort of escarpment, and there is a wonderful, scenic view of the countryside below.

It has only recently been completed at a cost of over three thousand million Baht and is the largest pagoda in Thailand; one hundred and one (Roi Et) meters long and wide, and one hundred and nine meters high. It is beautifully adorned in gold and is truly inspiring.

This place is the very heart of Issan Buddhism. There was a lot of walking and climbing involved, but I didn’t mind at all, in fact I seemed to have more energy than Wan.

On our way back we stopped at a roadside Issan food place and had delicious barbequed chicken and fish (Issan style) with ‘som tum’, fish salad and sticky rice. Better than eating at a five star Bangkok restaurant, and all for three hundred Baht.

I love having family around me, and Jasper is a loveable little rascal. We have spent many hours together playing silly games. I feel so content and happy and I know that Wan is also very happy.

I have no idea where all this is going to lead to, and for the moment I am just taking it day by day and enjoying myself.

Some difficult decisions will have to be made soon, but in the mean time I’m not thinking too much about it.

Wan told me from the very first day that she could never leave Jasper at home and live away from him for very long, unlike many Isaan women.

It does beg the question as to why she went to Pattaya in the first place, but she was clearly desperate. She also wants to live in her house, and keep Jasper in the local school.

I like it very much here, but could never live here permanently. I would be very happy to spend the occasional week or two up here as I like to get away from it all sometimes, so coming up here would be as good a place as any.

But live here for good?– no. Not yet anyway.

So I don’t quite know where this leads us.

Maybe God will find a way. We’ll see.

Some of you guys make me laugh.

You seem so sure that my latest fling will end in yet another disaster. Of course you may well be correct, but for goodness sake give me a chance.

I have deliberately not told you much about Wan’s background; partly because I want to be a bit mischievous, and partly because I know that if I do tell you, you will examine everything I write in the minutest detail and without doubt, you will find fault and send me opinions and advice full of gloom and doom.

I also suspect that even if I was to write about Wan, many of you won’t believe what I tell you. So it’s better to remain silent until I have established the truth or otherwise of her story for myself.

So far, nothing she has done or said has led me to suspect she has not told me the whole truth about herself.

I know I am the world’s biggest mug as far as women are concerned – especially Thai ladies of the night – but believe it or not, I always know very early on what I am getting into. I understand far better than you think just what motivates these women and how deceitful and self serving most of them are. God knows I’ve had enough of them, so if I don’t know by now I never will.

But there’s that self destructive streak in me that still makes me get involved with them, regardless. I must have masochistic tendancies.

And I’m telling you that Wan is completely different. Maybe I can make you understand if I tell you that far from me worrying if she will really be a good, honest companion, my main concern is whether I can stay with her and remain faithful to her. Wan is a lovely, delicate sensitive lady, but she hasn’t got the sexual allure that the whores have got.

Yesterday afternoon the two of us went for a walk from my condo, along the beach into Jomtien proper, where we sat down and had a few drinks. (She water, me beer).This is the first time I have sat on the beach since I have lived in Jomtien. There was a picturesque sunset, soft cool breezes wafted around us, and the beer tasted extremely good.

After an hour or so we wandered to a nearby pub and I ordered some food. There were a couple of scantily clad ladies there who immediately caught my interest. I don’t know what it is about these whores that turn me on so much, but it is something I will have to fight if this relationship with Wan is to get anywhere.

As I was eating my meal, an elderly guy came in who I immediately recognized. He was one of the long term members of the morning AA meeting. He looked at me and noticed the beer on my table.

“I see your still researching then, Mobi?” he said with a smile.

“Yes, Mick, still researching.”

We left shortly after, and I didn’t drink again.

All told – yesterday afternoon I had four small beers, and last night I slept like a baby for over nine hours.

MOBI VIGNETTES

MARDIE (Part 1 )

In the Vignette, “Azzy – My love”, I wrote that Azzy was my first real love.

Upon reflection, I am not sure if that was really the case. Certainly Azzy was my first wife, and for sure it was by far the longest relationship that I had experienced up to that point in my life.

But there were two significant relationships before I ever met Azzy. The first was probably more of a teenage infatuation, but the second was the ‘real deal’.

The second was with a lady called Mardie, and this is what happened.

I was only twenty one when I met Mardie.

It was 1967 and Mardie was working as a temporary secretary for my employers, an American oil company, at our plush offices at Berkeley Square in the West end of London.

I had been working there for several months as an accountant, my first ‘proper’ job after completing my five year articles as a trainee Chartered Accountant, when the lovely Mardie walked in one day to report for work.

She was also twenty one, and worked for one of the largest temp agencies in the world, having been seconded from the New York office on some kind of exchange programme.

Mardie was petite, ( I like my women that way), slim, with a slightly swarthy complexion, and glorious legs that left little to the imagination in her micro min-skirt that was all the rage in swinging London. I was fascinated by her New York accent and her unique, outgoing approach to life – so different to all the English girls I had known up to that point in my life.

Mardie wasn’t brash – far from it – but she was very a confident, self assured young lady who knew what she wanted in life, and right now it was to see England and enjoy herself as much as possible.

I shared ‘Mardie the secretary’ with a few other accountants in the office, and she immediately hit it off with everyone who were all captivated by her good looks and friendly, outgoing personality.

I was immediately attracted to her – as were a number of the other young accountants in the office – but such was my shyness and inexperience with women, that I had already resigned myself to being one of the ‘also runs’. Indeed it was inconceivable to me that such a lovely person didn’t already possess a string of boyfriends.

There was one particular ‘Romeo’ in our office, Jim, who seemed to spend his entire spare time chasing, and usually succeeded in  ensnaring young ladies that he met and it didn’t take long for him to get his hooks into Mardie.

Within a few days of Mardie coming to work for us, he was escorting her from the office most evenings and he had clearly chalked up yet another conquest.

My faint hopes of trying to date Mardie were dashed and I resigned myself to yet more despair and disappointment.

At that point in my life I was desperately lonely. I had recently made the big move from my parents’ flat, and had rented a room in a large house in Bayswater.

But London can be a very unfriendly and lonely place for a single young man who had left all his friends behind in East London and was too shy and lacking in confidence to make new ones – especially friends of the opposite sex.

If Mardie hadn’t been American, I doubt if the relationship would have ever got off the ground. In the 1960’s, the men were still expected to make all the running  as far as ‘chatting up ladies’ were concerned, and most English girls would never dream of making the first move, regardless of how much they may be attracted to a particular man.

In this regard, the Yanks were about twenty years ahead of their English cousins, and American ladies held no such compunctions in being the first to make an approach to a member of the opposite sex.

Mardie knew that I liked her – after all I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she walked seductively around the office in her high heels and micro minis, exposing most of her stunning, tantalizing thighs.

She would always give me a very warm smile, and when she came into my office to bring me her completed correspondence, she would sit down and chat for a while.

My shyness with her slowly evaporated and we started to get on very well together. She was intrigued by my reserved, English manner, and I was equally fascinated by her American mannerisms. We shared a sense of humour that poked fun at each other’s culture and language differences.

One day, out of the blue, Mardie asked me if I would like to have a drink with her after work.

I asked her about Jim – the guy that she seemed to be dating on most evenings. She brushed off the mention of his name and told me not to worry about him, that he wasn’t her boy friend.

I was completely bowled over and immediately agreed to a date that very evening.

In spite of her assurances about Jim, she obviously did not want to make our date public knowledge, and we arranged to meet downstairs in the reception area of Berkeley Square House, the building where I worked.

I remember vividly to this day meeting her at the appointed place and time, and walking down the road together She took my hand and at that moment, I must have been the happiest man in London – possibly the world.

She was truly a lovely girl, very intelligent and a delightful personality. Her grandparents had immigrated to the USA from the Lebanon, which her explained her slightly swarthy, exotic appearance.

One date followed another, and together we explored London. We went to all the well known tourist spots – many of which I had never visited – and also enjoyed lovely summer evenings at riverside pubs and other romantic places, many of them recommended to me by my work colleagues who knew far more about London than I did.

My colleague Jim, who it transpired had fallen head over heels for Mardie, was none too pleased. He never spoke to me, but would commandeer Mardie for hours on end in the office. They would go into a huddle and Jim never gave up trying to persuade Mardie to give him another chance.

Mardie had told me that she had liked Jim very much at first, but that he had ‘come on too strong”, became very possessive and made too many demands on her. When she tried to assert her independence, he had had turned very angry, almost violent and she was a little scared of him. She told me that Jim wasn’t a particularly bad person,  but she didn’t want to be involved with him anymore.

The whole office knew what was going on. Mardie had dumped Jim for me, and Jim wasn’t talking it lightly. When he wasn’t spending countless hours trying to persuade Mardie to change her mind, he was soliciting the sympathy of fellow workers, accusing me of stealing his girlfriend. It wasn’t long before the office started to split into two camps – those who supported me, Mobi, and those who threw in their lot with Jim.

I had the lion’s share of support, as I was seen as the young naïve, ‘innocent’ victim of Jim’s ridiculous accusations, but Jim also had some significant support from a few key people.

Mardie couldn’t stand it anymore, and one day she told me that she had requested a transfer to another company in London. I was pretty upset, but could see the logic of it, and after that things in the office calmed down a little, but Jim and some of his ‘supporters’ rarely spoke to me.

The relationship continued to blossom, and I spent many a happy evening at Mardie’s flat that she shared with two other young ladies.

Winter came and went and we wined, dined and danced the Summer away, going to shows in the West End, spending idyllic evening in pubs, and enjoying ourselves at drunken parties listening to the Beatles music.

For Mobi, the swinging sixties had finally arrived, and one of my fondest memories is of a wild party at Mardie’s flat, with dozens of us stoned out of our minds, smooching to “Hey Jude” which seemed to go on forever – and probably did.

To this day, every time I hear that Beatles classic, I recall that crazy wonderful, love-filled evening I spent at Mardie’s flat, way back in the summer of 1968.

August Bank holiday was still at the start of August in those far off days, and we both decided to take a few days off, and we drove down to the West country for a week’s holiday.

The roads to the West Country in the 1960′s still left a lot to be desired, and of course the summer bank holiday had brought out the world and their cars out onto England’s inadequate highways.

Progress to Cornwall was painfully slow, and after many hours on the road, Mardie volunteered to take over the driving. I was little skeptical about this, as she had never driven on the left side of the road before and I had no idea how skilled a driver she was. Nevertheless, against my better judgment, I moved over to let her take the wheel.

It was a disaster. She drove too fast, did not know how to use a manual gear box and kept hitting the curb on the left side of the road. I was beside myself with concern of an imminent crash, to say nothing of the damage she was doing to my precious car.

I asked her to stop, but she kept going, continuing to crunch the gear box and scrape the curb. Finally I lost my temper and screamed at her to stop.

She stopped, but she couldn’t understand what she had been doing wrong, and didn’t seem to realize that she had been scraping the curb, and scratching my car.

I tried to explain the problem, but she said nothing, and I knew she was very upset with me.

I drove the rest of the way to Cornwall in complete silence, and it wasn’t really until the following day that she began to talk to me and behave in a manner close to her normal, cheerful demeanour.

It was our first real fight, and I suspect that the effects of it on her were much deeper than I had imagined at the time.

Following that holiday, which was not  an unmitigated success, we started arguing on a regular basis. It was as though the fight on the road had unleashed our innermost frustrations with each other, and once out, we couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle.

Mardie started to distance herself from me, and made excuses not to see me every day.

But I was still madly in love with her and was totally miserable when I wasn’t with her.

As if to rub salt into the wound, Jim came by my office one morning with a big grin on his face and took great pleasure in informing me that he had dated Mardie the previous evening.

It felt like a stab in the back, and I immediately called her but she wasn’t available. When I eventuially did get hold of her she assured me that the date meant nothing and that she had only agreed to see him because he wouldn’t stop pestering her. I wasn’t sure if she was telling me the truth but was willing to believe anything.

Then the axe fell. It was early September, and Mardie informed me that she had to return to New York. I was devastated. I couldn’t understand why she wanted to go back, I thought she was happy living in London.

She told me that she had a problem with the lease on her New York apartment that she had sub-let to a friend. Apparently the friend had failed to pay the rent for several months and the landlord was now suing her. She said she had no choice – she had to go back, get a job in New York so that she could stay in her apartment and pay the rent herself.

Mardie was clearly resolved on this course of action, and there was no arguing with her. She told me she would be leaving within two weeks.

Those final two weeks were not a particularly happy time. The change in our relationship had left its mark on me and my unhappy state of mind was now compounded by Mardie’s imminent departure.

When the day arrived, I took her to the airport and I was so miserable I was inconsolable. Mardie, on the other hand seemed seemed to bearing up pretty well and showed little signs of sadness. In truth, I think  she was looking forward to going home after such a long time away.

I do think however she was sorry for me, and that in her own mind she probably thought that our relationship was over and that she would never see me again.

But for me, I had no intention of letting go just yet. I told her that we would keep in touch and that as soon as it was possible, I would fly to New York and visit her.

She assured me that I would be welcome there at any time. We had arrived at the Departure Gate and we kissed briefly. She looked back, gave a little wave and she was gone.

I drove slowly back to London, feeling very miserable. I loved her so much, and I was determined not to lose her, whatever it may take, and whatever sacrifices I may be obliged to make to see her again.

Please click on any the above tabs to read previously blogged stories in chronological order

I had a couple of small beers last night at home. I don’t know why really, just felt like a drink. It was my first drink for a couple of days. But after two beers I stopped and I was sound asleep before midnight.

My current drinking habits are no different to any other non-alcoholic, social drinker.

Whether you guys like it or not, this is entirely due to the fact that I am happy and relaxed and am being looked after by a very nice, kind, sweet lady who can’t do enough for me and is making very few demands in return. It makes such a difference to my whole outlook on life, my general demeanour and my mental state.

I have no idea how long I can live like this – controlling my drinking and living a ‘clean’ life with my latest lady, but I will enjoy it while it lasts.

I am spending most of my time at home, just going out for shopping trips and other errands, and the occasional evening meal outside at a restaurant. I haven’t been near a bar in days, and my new lady is cooking most of my meals for me at home.

The therapist who helped me a few years ago told me that he didn’t think I was a true alcoholic and that if I could get my domestic life sorted (at that time I was still in the throes of emotional traumas with Dang – my wife), he thought that I would be able to control my drinking.

I don’t know why he said that, and I didn’t believe him at the time, which is one of the reasons that I stopped seeing him, but who knows? Maybe he was right after all.

Only time will tell.

My trip to Bangkok to meet up with Bob and see Dave has been postponed yet again. Bob has now booked his flight for two weeks hence, so on Sunday morning I will drive up to Roi Et with my lady.

Her name is Wan.

I haven’t been anywhere except Bangkok for months, and I will enjoy the trip, whatever transpires. I really want to get away from civilization for a few days, and get closer to nature, and even to my creator. It is very difficult to do that here in ‘sin city’.

Wan’s house has an air-conditioned bedroom, so I will be able to stay there. I will take the opportunity to do a bit of sightseeing, and all in all it should be a nice break.

I will resist any attempts by Wan and her family to turn me into a ‘cash cow’, and if there is any suggestion of this happening, I will simply pack my things and head back for Pattaya.

I am much stronger these days and don’t take any shit from any woman. I do what I want to do – not what they want me to do. Those days are finally gone and if they don’t like it, it’s ‘tough titties’.

I know that my regular gang of commentators is highly suspicious of the motives of the latest object of my affections, and I do appreciate all your warnings and advice.

But it amuses me that you nothing about her yet you are making judgments based on your preconceived notions of her background.

Anyway, it is good fun and we will see who is right and who is wrong.

I will give you another tidbit today. Wan has never worked in a bar, restaurant or any other establishment where ladies go with customers for money. In fact she hates Pattaya, and is shocked by what she has seen here, and that is only Jomtien! I hesitate to take her to the real ‘sin city’ – downtown Walking Street and its environs – the shock may be too great.

This indeed may be a serious impediment to us taking up residence together as at the moment I have no intention of moving from Pattaya and certainly not to a place such as Roi Et.

As I have said to Wan many times – “Let’s just take things a day at a time and see what happens.”

Tomorrow, I will take another “Vignette” from my memory banks and recommence my stories from the past.

Please click on the above tab to read the entire “Mobi’s Story” in chronological order.

Today is my second day of sobriety.

I am still with the “lady of my dreams”.

I am eating well, sleeping extremely well, and behaving myself.

All things being equal I will be going back to Bangkok on Friday to meet up with Bob and to visit with Dave again. Then On Monday I will be going up-country for a few days with my new lady.

More on this tomorrow.

MOBI VIGNETTES

AZZY – MY LOVE (Part 10 )

Azzy was true to her word, and after breakfast the following morning, she confirmed her plans to go out all day, and leave me to take care of the ailing Andy.

I gave her a wad of money to make sure she wouldn’t run out half way through the day, and as soon I was sure she was really gone, I immediately started packing up my things.

It didn’t take long, and then I went downstairs to call a taxi. I advised the landlord that Andy and I were going away for a couple of days, but that my wife would be remaining in the room and would await my return.

I told the driver to take us back to my parents’ flat, where I would plan my next move. I couldn’t stay there long, for it was more than possible that Azzy would be able to find her way there and confront me.

Knowing her capacity for making trouble and violent confrontation, anything could happen. I didn’t want my parents – in particular my mother – and of course Andy, subjected to any more mayhem and mental trauma.

I decided to rent a car, and after calling my brother who lived the other side of the river Thames in Kent, I drove there with Andy to stay a few nights, and see what transpired with Azzy.

The illness and all the emotional upsets of the last few days had taken their toll on Andy’s equilibrium. He was barely eight months old, but I am sure that even at that age babies are susceptible to outside influences, especially negative ones, and by the time I arrived at my brothers’ house, Andy was screaming the place down, and the only way I could pacify him was to hold him permanently in my arms. The minute I put him down, he started to scream again.

It was very difficult for me, and also for my brother and his wife. They were as yet childless and were not used to caring for such young babies, especially one who was stressed and wouldn’t stop screaming.

Andy had to sleep next to me in the bed, as it was the only way I could settle him and get him to sleep. I was terrified that I might smother him, but I really had little choice.

The following day my brother and sister-in-law tried to help me in sharing the burden of looking after Andy, but it wasn’t to be. In fact when my poor sister-in-law found that that she was unable to help, she became so distressed that she burst into tears at her own helplessness. She wanted to help, but she couldn’t, and as a result of what happened, it was a number of years before she finally managed to put that early experience of babies out of her mind and have one of her own.

So once again I was ‘between a rock and a hard place’. I couldn’t stay with Azzy, I couldn’t stay with my parents or my brother, and I couldn’t extricate myself from my disturbed baby for more than a few minutes at a time.

I spent the afternoon and evening ‘holed up’ in the spare bedroom with Andy, and I became very worried and very depressed.

I spent a second, very troubled night at my brother’s house, and when I finally emerged the following morning, my brother had some news for me – some bad and some good.

He had been speaking to my mother. As I had feared, Azzy did indeed mange to retrace her steps to my parent’s home the previous evening. I learned from him, and from later accounts, what had transpired on that fateful evening.

She had pounded on the door and demanded to see me and her baby. My father had insisted that I wasn’t there but she didn’t believe him.

Her pounding became ever louder and she started screaming and shouting obscenities at my parents through the letter box. When she grew tired of this, she would go outside and scream up the the flat which was located on the second floor, from the communal garden area, throwing anything she could find up at the windows. Then, after a while, she would returned to once again bang on the door and continue her foul mouthed screaming.

Inevitably, many of  the neighbours’ doors opened and a crowd assembled  in the garden, watching and listening to her antics with increasing dismay. Then tempers began to fray and they started to make their own contributions to the row. They shouted at her to shut up and go away and made menacing gestures

Azzy was having none of this, and she attacked a couple of men who approached her, and such was the vehemence of her attacks that the crowd retreated with some trepidation.

Inevitably, someone called the police, and after half an hour or so, the boys in blue turned up to sort out what was becoming an increasingly violent, domestic incident.

It didn’t take long for the police to identify the focal point of the trouble, and when they approached her, she redirected her abusive behaviour at the police, complaining to them that my father and son had kidnapped my baby.

By this time my father had decided that enough was enough and he emerged from the flat, approaching Azzy in an extremely menacing manner.

The police quickly came between the two antagonists and a police sergeant escorted my father back into his flat where he explained to them what had happened.

Whatever my father may or may not have been, he was a highly intelligent man, and when it suited him, he knew exactly how to behave in such circumstances and how to talk to the police.

He told them of his daughter-in- law’s selfish and reckless behaviour towards her baby, including her refusal to let him see a doctor, and of the ‘tug of war’ that had occurred when he had tried to take the baby to get medical treatment.

Looking at the volatile behaviour of the young woman outside, (for by now she was becoming increasingly hostile to the police who were trying to restrain her), it wasn’t difficult to accept all that my father had said to them, especially as my gentle, quiet spoken mother was on hand to confirm every aspect of the events.

At length, one of the police who had been trying to calm Azzy, came upstairs to consult with his sergeant, the result of which was that the police asked my father for permission to search the flat to ensure that I  wasn’t hiding there with the baby.

My father immediately agreed to this, and a few minutes later, both policemen went back outside to tell Azzy that I was definitely not in the flat.

Azzy became even more enraged, and when they told her that she had to stop causing a disturbance and leave the area, she managed to pull herself free and aimed a well aimed punch on the nose of one of her police ‘minders’.

All hell broke loose. She was immediately wrestled to the ground by three, burly, six foot cops, handcuffed and dragged unceremoniously to the nearby police car, all the while screaming and accusing them of lying to her.

That was the last anyone saw of her that evening and my mother assumed that Azzy would have remained in custody. After all she had assaulted a police officer.

That was the bad news.

The good news was that one of my brother’s colleagues who worked with him in the local council offices had expressed an interest in helping out on the baby front, when my brother had recounted the story of what had been happening and the distressed state of his nephew.

The colleague’s name was John and he was a respected figure in a local Christian group. John and his family had fostered a number of children over the years on a short term basis, and he offered his services to take care of Andy in order to free me up to take care of my business.

This sounded  like an offer I couldn’t refuse, as I was anxious to get back to London and see what was going on with my wife, for in spite of everything I still felt responsible for her, (after all I did bring her to England),and I had to plan what was going to happen as regards my job and my future was concerned. I was due to return to Nigeria with my family in less than two weeks.

I could certainly do very little as long as I was taking care of my baby, twenty-four/seven, but whether or not Andy would agree to be left with John and his family remained to be seen.

My brother took me over to see John and his family that evening. John was in his thirties and already had two children of his own – a son and daughter.

Coming from an unhappy family, and growing up in an atmosphere of fear and intimidation, I was immediately bowled over by the happy, kind and loving atmosphere I found there. Everyone was so kind, and they couldn’t do enough for us. They were indeed a lovely family, and Andy immediately took to them, actually grinning for the first time in weeks.

There is no doubt in my mind that even the youngest babies feel emotional vibrations from those around them, and as much as he reacted badly from the negative ‘vibes’ when he was with living with his scrapping parents, he clearly responded to the obvious love and affection that pervaded John’s family home.

We agreed that Andy would stay there for a week or so, until I had sorted out my future and what was going to happen with Andy. So the next day I drove back to London to find out what had happened to Azzy, and to consult with my employers.

My father had been making some enquiries on my behalf, and he established that Azzy was being held a few miles away in a cell at a local Police station, so I took off to go and see her.

I was somewhat surprised to learn that so far she had not been charged with any offence, but was being held in custody for her own protection.

After waiting alone at the police station for quite a while, I was introduced to a social worker, who said she wanted to talk to me about Azzy.

It was then that I learned that following her arrest, Azzy had behaved in an increasingly bizarre and psychotic manner and that they were now becoming concerned about her mental state.

Apparently she had refused to eat, shouted abuse at anyone who came near her, and when alone continually talked to herself in her Yuruba dialect. The social worker told me that she had managed to have a brief conversation with her and Azzy had complained that there were evil ‘spirits’ in the cell with her and that they were trying to kill her.

I recounted Azzy’s extreme behaviour, both since we arrived in England and also when we were home in Nigeria. The social worker made copious notes, and after a while she asked me if I thought that Azzy was ‘psychotic’. I thought about this for a long while and answered in the affirmative.

She told me that she was arranging to have Azzy examined by a psychiatrist, and if he concurred, she would arrange to have Azzy ‘sectioned’ – locked up in a secure mental institution for while and undergo treatment.

She told me that it would be better if I did not see Azzy at this point. She said I could visit her later, once she had been admitted to hospital.

I left it at that, and drove into central London to see my employers, where I explained what had happened and asked them if it would be possible to postpone my return to Nigeria. They were extremely sympathetic, and said that they would inform my boss in Lagos that I would be delayed for a few weeks on compassionate grounds.

I will be brief on the conclusion of this ‘Vignette’ which seems to have grown into a saga.

One thing led to another and my son Andy remained with John, who adored him like his own son and some years later, with my permission, legally adopted him.

It broke my heart, but I realized that I was in no condition to become a single parent – especially in those days when there was no governmental support, and John had come on the scene – as if from heaven. John and his family could give Andy a stable, loving home life and raise him in a manner far better than I could ever aspire to.

For me, at barely twenty-five years old, it was a ‘no-brainer’. Whether it was the correct decision, and whether I was just being plain selfish, is anyone’s guess, but that’s what happened, and although we have never been close, we did keep in touch, and Andy grew up to be a fine, highly moral and lovely young man.

Azzy was ‘sectioned’ and I went to see her a few times. She was obviously sedated, but whatever the reason she seemed to have lost a lot of her hostility and was very friendly towards me. I think they had treated her very well in the hospital, and she had responded positively.

When she was released, the social services tracked down a community of Nigerians who lived in another part of London and she went to live with them. Her new found countrymen helped to get on her on her feet and to settle into a new life in England. She had no desire to return to Nigeria.

I eventually returned to Nigeria, where I had to face the wrath of Azzy’s parents who demanded to know what had happened to her. I tried to explain but I doubt they ever really understood, and for years probably harbored suspicions that I had somehow ‘done away’ with her.

Several months later I went to visit Azzy in her new London environment, and she had settled in remarkably well. I was introduced to the people she lived with, and many more Nigerian friends besides, and she took me to the West End where she frequented Nigerian-run, late night clip joints. I wasn’t sure if she was actually back on the game, but she certainly existed in that ‘twilight zone’ where the community she lived with indulged in activities which at best could be described as barely legal.

An uncontested divorce followed after a couple of years.

Many years later, I forget how many, I ran into her completely by accident in Shepherds Bush underground station, in West London.

It was during one of my very brief periods back home, and I had rented a flat in the area. It transpired that Azzy was also living locally and was actually within walking distance of my flat.

It was Azzy who recognized me when I was queuing up for a train ticket, for I would never in a million years have recognized her.

To say she had put on weight was an understatement. She used to have a very slender, curvy figure, with beautifully slim, perfectly proportioned, sexy legs, but the woman who was standing next to me was extremely large. She still had that classic African face with exquisitely chiseled features, but her body was thing of the past. Her stomach had become swollenout of all proportion, her backside stuck out a mile and her extremely fleshy legs literally wobbled as she walked.

It wasn’t until she identified herself that I realised that she was Azzy, my ex- wife.

It must have been genetically ordained, for I suddenly realised she was the spitting image of her mother.

I saw her several times during the few weeks that followed, before I went back overseas again. In spite of her unflattering body size, she was now a fully fledged prostitute, and had built up a thriving trade at her flat. She entertained me in between visits by her regular punters who all seemed to delight in her large, fleshy appearance.

We got on surprisingly well. There were no recriminations for the past and we had some happy, fun-filled evenings together.

I saw her the night before I was due to fly back to Bangkok. We promised to keep in touch, although deep down we knew that it would never happen.

We kissed – not as lovers – more like old friends from a long time ago.

I never saw Azzy – my first real love – again.

Please click on the above tab to read the entire “Mobi’s Story” in chronological order.

Once again I recently succeeded in remaining sober for five complete days, only to pick up a beer on day five.

By last Thursday I was completely recovered from my food poisoning, albeit still a bit weak, and I did have a couple of beers to celebrate. I know I can’t keep on tempting fate, but for the last two to three days I have managed to stop drinking after just three or four small beers, and have had no desire to drink any more.

There is a reason for this.

I think I might have finally found my soul mate. This is a new girl who I have never written about before, and I am going to wait a few days before I tell you all about her.

So far we have been so happy together that I can’t quite believe its happening. She sort of found me – I didn’t find her – as many of you told me would happen.

I will report back later.

I don’t know about nine lives – I reckon Dave must have ninety lives.

It was barely a week or so back when everyone, including the doctors had given up all hope of Dave coming out of his latest brush with alcohol, drugs and delirium.

Yet he is back home, getting stronger every day, and his mind and body are slowly repairing themselves. I speak with him every day, and I have to say I am amazed at his progress. He is becoming increasingly sharp in his conversation, and he tells me that he is managing to get around a bit, although still spends much of his time in bed.

The brain scans have revealed no permanent damage. It turns out his head injuries were quite minor and that his ‘temporary brain damage’ was all alcohol induced.

Since this latest ‘emergency’ Dave has admitted that he is an alcoholic, (this is the first time I have heard him admit this) and he has told me that he now knows for sure that he can never drink again.

He even now accepts that he cannot take a few beers every day to keep him ‘stable’ as he has stubbornly insisted on doing for so long.

He is clearly still under sedation, (which I assume is aimed at helping withdraw from his alcohol addiction) and is under the care of a neurologist at his new hospital who has told him that if necessary, she will personally take care of his alcohol addiction for the rest of his life. He will be seeing her every two weeks from now on.

I haven’t yet told him that his brother has stated categorically that he will cut off his money if he drinks again – I will tell him that when I see him – but I did tell him that if he takes another drink he will be all alone in the world. Everyone, including his lady, has had enough, and next time there will be nobody around to help him and he will die a lonely and miserable death.

He told me he understands that, and is determined to really try harder than ever this time. He said that Bob and I are the only true friends he has in the world, and that without us, he would have given up long ago. He says that just having me call him every day keeps him going. I replied that if ever he felt like having a beer he should call me, whatever time of the day or night. He said that he would do so.

Let see what happens. My best guess is he has a fifty/fifty chance of success – assuming of course that he hasn’t already done his liver irreparable damage.

MOBI VIGNETTES

AZZY – MY LOVE (Part 9 )

Andy was just seven months old when the three of us flew to England in August 1971 for my well deserved break, and also for my ‘golden opportunity’ to try and do something about Azzy, my almost ‘out of control’ wife.

My mother and father still lived in their large, three bedroom council flat in East London, and we were initially welcomed into the “bosom of my family”. My mother and father were both delighted with their very first grandson, and drooled over him like a couple of proud new parents.

I was especially surprised at my father’s behavior, who seemed to be mellowing with age, and played with the baby in a manner that was totally alien to me and my still bitter memories of his ‘normal’ behaviour.

But the idyllic family reunion was short lived.

It didn’t take many days for my parents to cotton onto the fact that Azzy had little interest in looking after the baby, and that she expected me, and her parents-in law to do a lion’s share of the work.

At first, my parents, especially my mother, took care of the chores as a pleasure, but relations started to become stained when it became apparent that Azzy wanted to spend all her time shopping for ever more clothes in the local high street shops, coming back each day dressed in all the latest skimpy, summer fashions – hot pants, mini-skirts and the like.

Although it hadn’t been that long since she had delivered her baby, her figure was slim and firm, and she looked every bit a fashion model, especially when done up to the nines in figure flattering clothes.

When she wasn’t out shopping, she stayed in her bedroom, indulging her second passion – drinking. She tried to keep this activity a secret from my family, but it wasn’t long before they realised what she was up to.

Things continued with an uneasy peace, as even my father seemed to making a particular effort not to turn this visit into a major fracas.

Then Andy became ill. He developed a very nasty cold and fever and he wouldn’t’ stop crying. When his cold symptoms first appeared, I popped down the local pharmacy and bought him some medicine, but after a couple of days, it became clear that Andy’s condition was getting worse.

My father became very concerned and told me to go and get the baby and go with him to the local doctor’s surgery.

I started to do his bidding, but my beloved wife had other ideas. Hearing my father order me around and making decisions about the care of her baby without consulting her was like red rag to a bull. She didn’t appreciate my father trying to take charge of things and told me in no uncertain terms not to move our baby from the bedroom. I started to argue with her and insist that Andy needed to see a doctor, but she wouldn’t have it.

My father heard us arguing and stormed into the bedroom and started shouting at her, raising the decibels with every word he uttered, demanding that she hand the baby over to him.

Most people’s reaction to this kind of extraordinarily intimidating behaviour from my father is to immediately back away and to become cowered into timid submission.

But my little Azzy was made of sterner stuff.

No one in this world was going to tell her what to do, and she picked up the baby and shouted back at him, giving as good as she got.

My father became ever more enraged, and as Azzy started to put Andy back in his cot, my father caught her unawares and grabbed the baby from her loosened grasp and stormed out of the bedroom, shouting at me to follow him.

Azzy was having none of it. She followed my father into the passage and grabbed hold of the baby, screaming and shouting at him. There ensued a minor tug of war, but thankfully my father quickly let go to avoid harming the baby.

She returned to the bedroom and locked the door and screamed at all of us to go away.

Things turned ever more dire.

My father was now in one of his fully fledged rages and he banged on the door so loud it must have been heard on the other side of the street. Azzy continued screaming obscenities at him from inside the room, and my mother burst into tears.

Undaunted, my father launched himself at the door which was followed by the cracking sound of spitting wood and the door suddenly flung wide open.

Azzy was sitting on the bed, Andy in her arms, and in her right hand was a kitchen knife. I had no idea where she had obtained it from but I had no doubt that she had secreted it for just such an eventuality.

She screamed at my father not to touch her or the baby, or she would put the knife in the child. I didn’t believe her. She might be a wild, self absorbed, slightly psychotic control freak from darkest Africa, but I didn’t imagine for one moment that she could be capable of such an action. It was all bluff.

My father told my mother to call the police.

Azzy responded by telling us that if we called the police she would cut herself and tell the police that my father had attacked her, at which point she ran the knife down her forearm and produced blood.

At least she seemed to have stopped threatening to harm the baby, and my father – maybe the first time in his life – decided to back off, and he retreated to the lounge from where he called me for discussion.

He informed me that he wasn’t concerned with her threats and was prepared to call the police and have the baby removed from her. He said it was up to me. If I agreed he would call the police, have them take the baby into care and then throw Azzy out, but I was welcome to stay.

Or, if I wished, I could leave today with Azzy and the baby and then the decision on the welfare of the baby would be down to me, but he warned me that Andy was becoming increasingly sick, and that Azzy was a very bad person and and an even worse mother, both of which I already knew.

I asked what would happen to Azzy if he threw her out and I left her. He said he couldn’t give a f..ck what happened to her!

I went to speak to Azzy, who had also calmed down a little by this time, and we agreed to pack our things and leave.

We called a cab, and drove around looking for a suitable guest house to spend the next few days, until we decided what we were going to do for the rest of my holiday.

We located a clean place a couple of miles away from my parents flat and moved in with Andy.

The poor little mite was still very poorly and by now had a very high fever. I was very concerned, but Azzy still refused to let me take him to a doctor. But that night Andy was becoming so ill that he wouldn’t stop crying, so I prevailed on Azzy to let me call the emergency doctor.

The doctor finally arrived late that night and immediately gave Andy an injection and provided us with a range of medications with which to treat his fever and related ailments. He told me that Andy should respond to treatment within twenty four hours, but that if there was any worsening of his condition, then I should take him straight to the emergency department of the nearest hospital.

At long last Andy stopped crying, and fell into a deep, and no doubt exhausted sleep. I felt his forehead an hour later, and was relieved to find that the fever had already started to abate.

In the middle of all this, Azzy had absented herself for an hour to go out and locate an off license where she bought herself a stock of beer.

Upon her return, she happily supped her beer, told me what a terrible man my father was, how stupid he was and laughed about how she had ‘bested’ him by threatening to harm the baby, and also herself. I kept my own counsel.

Later, she calmly informed me that she couldn’t stay in the room all day and all night, and that tomorrow she would go out alone, go shopping, go to the cinema, and leave me at home to take care of Andy. The fact that Andy was still seriously ill seemed not to have crossed her mind.

She fell into a deep, drunken sleep, and I lay beside her thinking and planning what I was going to do the next day, if she kept her “promise” to go out all day.

Today I have been sober for four days.

I feel so much better today.

Yesterday afternoon the diarrhea stopped, but I was still feeling extremely weak and still slept like there was no tomorrow. Late evening I perked up and started to feel much better and was even feeling hungry.

Then today after feeling a bit woozy when I first woke up, I have been going from strength to strength – literally.

Hence the large amount of blog writing today.

I would like to thank some of you who have wished me a speedy recovery and also to make a few general observations on your “comments”, as some of you seem to have misconstrued the statement I made in my blog on 9^th March, where I said:

“I didn’t particularly relish all the condemnatory comments which would inevitably spring forth.”

Firstly, I wish to reiterate that I always welcome all comments, whether, they be supportive, critical, constructive, or in a few incidents, downright insulting.

I made a pledge some time back that I will do my very best to publish all comments, whether or not I agree with them, provided they do not contain offensive language, or are particularly abusive.

Please understand that this is a purely voluntary situation as I have “absolute power” to approve, edit or remove comments, as I see fit, before they appear on my blog, but in the interests of fairness to my readers, I use this power extremely sparingly. I can even block comments from selected persons from reaching my inbox, if I so choose, but so far have not seen the need to do this.

The reason I made the above statement was simply that I knew exactly how certain people would react to my behaviour over the past week or so, and I was feeling bad enough about it myself, without all and sundry chipping in with more of the same.

I do not want to stop the comments, as there is much good stuff in them and, believe it or not, I do read and take in much of the advice that is given, but just for a short while, I needed a break from it all – time to reflect on what I have been up to, take a breather and consider yet again the things I need to do to change my life around.

As for some of the comments being “condemnatory”; well that’s exactly what they are:

Condemnatory: disapproving, critical, reproving, judgmental… and so on.

That’s what many of them are, and nothing wrong with that and it is what I need.

Without my readership, along with the comments it attracts, many of them condemnatory, there would be no blog, for what is the point of writing to myself?

So please keep them coming, I look forward to them; be they complimentary, condemnatory, or otherwise.

Tales of four ladies – old ones, new ones, loved ones and neglected ones.

Lady number one – Dow.

Alert readers of my blog will have noticed that on 1^st March, I made reference to meeting my first ever ‘non bar-girl’ in Thailand.

So this is what happened.

Dow will always hold a special place in my heart because she is (was) the first non-bar girl that I have ever dated in Thailand.

How did I meet her? Well I was following some of the good advice I received by readers of this blog and signed up on a few internet dating sites.

Barely twenty four hours after I signed up, I was online when I suddenly received an instant message asking me if I wished to chat with a young lady named Dow. I checked her profile, and although no photo was posted, decided to respond positively.

We started chatting and one thing led to another and we eventually had a “camcorder” conversation on MSN and we were able to see each other.

Dow was a pretty, thirty year old, single lady who lived about ninety kilometers from Pattaya, and ran her own advertising business. She had her own car, played golf and was due to visit a prestigious golf club that very day as the club was one of her major clients.

We arranged to meet at the club house on late afternoon of that very day.

She had a pretty face, as I had seen on the camcorder, but the rest of her didn’t quite match up, and she dressed appallingly, in badly fitting jeans, and flip flops, but she was a charming, cheery soul and was clearly very bright.

There was no doubt that the club was indeed one of her clients and everyone knew her and were running around and jumping at her every command. We chatted in the restaurant over a beer, and then ordered some food.

Suddenly she asked me if I would like a quick tour of the golf course. I was quite surprised at this suggestion, as it was around six thirty and dusk was fast setting in. She said she could procure a golf cart, so I thought: “What the heck? and followed her outside, where the cart was awaiting.

No sooner were we out of sight of the club house than young Dow was “all over me”. I won’t go into the ‘gory details’, but suffice to say, she wanted to have sex with me, there and then in the middle of the golf course. She kept asking me: “You want to sex me?”

I was astounded, for up to that point, I had not so much as touched her; treating her as a respectable lady and not wishing to offend her by making any overtly friendly gestures.

Being the English gentleman that I am, I politely declined to go ‘all the way’ on a golf course, but wasn’t averse to a bit of “hanky panky” in the bushes. Once Dow realised that my sense of propriety wouldn’t allow me to “sex her” there and then, she suggested that we quickly finish our meal and check into a nearby hotel.

This we did, but as we parked up at the hotel, (she in her car, me in mine), she asked me if I would rather go to my place in Pattaya. This sounded like a great idea to me, so the two cars were driven back to Jomtien, and we adjourned to the “Mobi-pad”.

More surprises were in store.

Dow was a very sexual person. It was an incredible experience, and when concluded, she told me that this had been her very first time. I was dumbfounded, surely she was lying – after all she was thirty years old, and had come onto me like a professional whore! I looked at the bed sheets and the tell-tale signs were there. She told me that she didn’t like Thai men and had been too busy with work and running her own business to get involved with men.

She did admit that she had met a few farangs through her work at the golf course, but they had all preferred bar girls to her, and had just treated her as a friend.

She was indeed one of the very few virgins that I have made love to.

I liked Dow and her knowledgeable, intelligent talk was a breath of fresh air after the inane drivel I usually had to contend with from my habitual ‘bar-girl’ fare.

The following morning we both had to leave early, me to my AA meeting and Dow back to her office, some ninety kilometers away.

Just before leaving we agreed that we would meet again the following evening, and then she put a little dampener on the whole affair by asking me to give her some “petrol money”. It was indeed a long journey, but I had thought that for just once in my life, I would be free of the need to “pay for it” – even if it was only the bar girl equivalent of the proverbial “taxi fare home”.

I asked her how much and she replied that five hundred baht would be sufficient for a round trip.

As events turned out, I ended up very drunk that night and went back to one of my old flames – Toi – she who I had paid for in advance. It must have been around three a.m. when the phones started ringing: firstly my number one mobile, followed by my number two mobile, followed a few minutes later by my condo landline phone. It was Dow, calling over and over. I  had to turn the mobile phones off and take the landline off the hook  to stop them all disturbing my drunken sleep.

Then, at eight I the morning, there was aloud knocking on the front door. I ignored it, hoping it would go away. Then again and again. I got up and went to the door and shouted at whoever was outside  to go away. It was the condo security guard with Dow. He told me that my “client” wanted to see me. I was still drunk and screamed at them to “bugger off”, which they eventually did.

Poor Toi was hiding under the bed. She thought it was my wife!!

When I sobered up, I regretted my behaviour and contacted Dow to apologize and explained my problems with alcohol. She was completely sympathetic and forgiving and we arranged to meet over the weekend.

She drove down to meet me at my condo on the Saturday afternoon and we immediately resumed where we had left off a couple of days earlier.

Later we went out for a meal, and it was after we had eaten that certain events started to bother me.

I popped into a supermarket to get some groceries, and asked Dow if there were any snacks or anything she needed.

To my surprise she started to fill up the trolley with all kinds of items – jars of coffee, Milo,cans and other foodstuff. She was stocking up for herself, and ‘her’ bill (which I paid) was well over a thousand baht.

Then she asked me to take her around Pattaya as she was looking to open a new office for her business there. We went to see several empty places, and each time she told me how much the rent was, and it soon became clear that for some strange reason she assumed that I was going to foot the bill – she thought I was going to invest in her business!

Thinking back, I recalled that in our initial conversations, she had mentioned wishing to open up her business in Pattaya, and I had indicated that maybe I could help her. I hadn’t intended that my offer of help would imply that I wanted to make an investment in her business, but presumably she had misunderstood my intentions.

The visits to empty offices were concluded, and as we drove back to the condo, she told me with a flourish that she calculated that the initial investment for her to open up in Pattaya would be in the region of one million Baht. She asked me what I thought.

I replied that I would think about it.

The next day, Sunday, she asked me if I didn’t have to go somewhere? I asked her: “Where?”

She said: “Aren’t you going to the bank?”

The mind boggled.

Then, just before she left in the afternoon, she asked me again for ‘petrol money’. I pulled out my wallet and gave her five hundred Baht. She shook her head, and said, no, it should be one thousand. As by now I had no intention of ever seeing her again, I gave her the one thousand, and wished her a pleasant journey.

That evening I wrote her a long email and explained that I would not be investing in her business and that as far as I could see she was only interested in my money and that we had better not see each other anymore.

At first she seemed to accept this, but during the past week or so, she has been contacting me continually to assure me that she really isn’t interested in my money, that she doesn’t want anything from me – just my love. She insists that I have misunderstood her, and is begging to meet up again.

I am still considering this, but am inclined just to let it go. It seems to me that straight girls can be more expensive than bar girls, and at least you know where you stand with a bar girl.

(A Post script to this encounter is that the subject of paying money to these girls got me thinking, so just for the hell of it, I sent a text message to Toi, and asked her if she would still wish to stay with me if I didn’t pay her any money. She replied in the affirmative, but told me she would have to carry on her ‘work’ in the bar – whatever that may mean!)

Lady number two – Tan

You may recall the delectable Tan from my blog of 20^th February. This is the one who quit the bar because she had a regular boyfriend and then returned when he dumped her. I had known her since she first started working and was quite keen on her, and after she returned to work we resumed our ‘platonic friendship’ only to have it dashed when I found out she was out somewhere with a new punter.

Well so it turned out to be the case.

A few days after I had told her to ‘get lost’, I received a call from her. She said she was in Bangkok, on her way to her home to collect her daughter.

She told me the truth. She admitted that she had indeed found a new man and he was going to take care of her and her daughter at his house in Pattaya. She said that she was very sorry for lying to me, and hoped that I wouldn’t feel too bad. She said that she had to take this opportunity for her and her daughter as she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in a bar. She said she didn’t love him, but that he was a good man and wanted to try it and see.

I thanked her for telling me the truth, and wished her all the best of luck in her new life. I told her that if she was ever in trouble or need of help, than she could call on me.

In truth I was rather relieved, because there was no way I would have taken a young baby into my place to live. I decided it was all for the best, and assumed I would never hear from her again.

I was wrong. Last Tuesday, she called me again. She told me she was still at her mother’s home up country and had been crying all night. She said that she really didn’t want to go and live with this man who she didn’t love. She said that she had never had sex with him, and had no desire to, and was worried about what would happen if she went to live with him.

We chatted for a long time, and the upshot of it was that she said that she really wanted to come and stay with me. I said she was welcome to come and give it a try, but no guarantees. We could see if it would work out over a trial period. But I told her that I could not take her daughter in my condo. It was too small, and she would be stuck there all the time with the baby. She said that was fine and she would leave the girl with her parents for the time being.

I asked her when she would tell the other man what she had decided. She told me she didn’t know – that she had two phones, and had turned the other one off so that he couldn’t contact her.

So everything was agreed, and she told me she would go to Bangkok on the Wednesday, and I would meet her in Bangkok on Thursday and we would travel back to Pattaya together on the Friday.

Tan called me on Wednesday, around noon, to inform me that she would be taking the three p.m. bus to Bangkok and would be there at around six p.m.

On Thursday morning, I headed off to Bangkok and called Tan. To my surprise she said she was still in her home up country. She said something had come up and she would be coming to Bangkok on Friday.

Later, when I arrived in Bangkok I tried to call her but her phone was turned off.

I called and called but it was off all day.

Then Friday evening it was on again and I called but no answer. I sent her a message, and she replied to say that she had problems at home and would meet me back in Pattaya. I asked her when, and she replied: “Probably on Sunday”.

Her phone was turned off again, and has been off ever since. (I put my number on her ‘call-back service’ so I will be informed by AIS as soon as her phone is turned on).

So of course I have given up on ever seeing Tan again.

She has admitted that she has two phones: I have the number of the first phone, and the other man has the number of the second. She activates and de-activates whichever phone suits her game at any particular moment in time.

Right now, The second phone is  activated, and poor, stupid,old Mobi is left out in the cold.

C’est la Vie – I liked her but didn’t love her.

No great loss, but a good excuse to drown a few sorrows.

Lady number three – Gina

I met Gina in Soi Cowboy in Bangkok. Where else??

I was drowning my sorrows over the ‘loss’ of Tan and met Gina, a pretty twenty-three year old, ethnic Kymer girl from Surin. I was drinking in her bar, and in the usual manner that these things develop, by midnight I was hungry and very drunk.

For some odd ball reason I bar-fined not only Gina, but also her friend, Tuk,  and the three of us went off together to eat at a nearby restaurant, before adjourning to my hotel room on Soi Nineteen.

We were all pissed as newts and collapsed, fully dressed on my bed, but as soon as I started to have romantic aspirations, Gina jumped off the bed in disgust, and told me in no uncertain terms that either Tuk goes or she, Gina, does.

I elected for Tuk to take the short straw, and packed her off home. Gina and I were both too drunk to do anything and we slept like babies.

Gina had to start her day job at a jewelry shop at eight a.m, and she rose before seven and made a quick departure, agreeing to meet me after she finished work at four p.m.

I was intending to drive back to Pattaya that morning, but I was still far too full of alcohol to make the journey so I extended my stay in Bangkok for another night.

Gina didn’t come and see me at four, but she did call and ask me to meet her at her bar later that night.

So I went back – this time sober, as was Gina. She was indeed a nice lady, very pretty, nice body, bright with a fair command of English. I asked her about her day job.

She told me that several months ago a group of Thais came to her bar and  asked the girls them if they were interested in learning a skill so that they could stop working at the bars and sleeping with farangs.

Gina signed up, and she was trained to make jewelry, which she does five days a week in Soi eight, Sukhumvit, in a factory owned by a philanthropic Englishman. She is paid seven thousand Baht per month for a forty hour week, and the only condition is that she stops her bar work and stops sleeping with farangs for money.

“So how come you’re still working here and sleeping around?”

“I don’t tell them”, she replied with a smile.

“And the other girls who work there?”

“Same-same. Many are my friends – we all still work in the bars at night.”

I smiled grimly at her unashamed duplicity. At least I could admire her honesty.

I liked Gina and I decided to bring her back to Pattaya with me for the remainder of the weekend.

We had a pleasant day and a half, and I acted as her tour guide. I was with Gina when I ate the dodgy oysters, and by the time I put her on the bus back to Bangkok on Sunday afternoon, I was already in the vomiting stage of my oyster induced food poisoning.

I promised Gina that I would go to Pattaya on this coming Friday and spend the weekend with her in Bangkok.

Before she left, I gave her some money. She looked at me and said, (in Thai): “So you’re paying me off?”

I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“This money – you’re paying me off. I thought we were friends and you were going to see me in Bangkok?”

“I am. I am!” I assured her.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I will come. I mean it. Look, I’m sorry; I just wanted to pay you for your time. OK, give it back to me.” I said with a smile.

She made to hand it back, but I declined with a laugh.

I had intended to be back in Bangkok this Friday as my friend Bob was planning to fly in and meet me, but he has now postponed, so at this point in time I have no idea whether I will still go. With all the red shirt trouble brewing, it doesn’t seem very likely.

Lady number four – Dang

(Yes, that Dang – Mrs Mobi.)

She called me last week and asked me to buy some dog food and bring it to the house. I had previously agreed to provide food for the dogs along with paying the house utilities.

I didn’t go on the appointed day, and she kept calling so I eventually turned up with the bag of dog food a couple of days later.

She was there with open arms and went out of her way to make me welcome. She even hugged me and kissed me. I did my best not to respond in kind.

She insisted that I take a seat and then she cooked me some food.

I then spent a lot of time with my dogs, who were going ballistic. I couldn’t keep Cookie, my golden retriever, off me and I had dog hairs all over my clothes. Dang insisted on removing them all with a special roller – most solicitous.

She asked me about my love life, and I told her that I didn’t have a regular girlfriend.

She said that if I rented a house, I could take the dogs back, but she would like to come and see them from time to time. She asked if I would let her see them if I had a new wife. This was all provocative stuff – just testing me to see what I would say.

After what I considered a reasonable period of time I made my departure, but not before she insisted on cuddling me once again.

My feelings for her are gone. She knows, (or rather thinks), that I have little money left, so I’m not sure what game she is trying to play. Whatever it is I’m not interested.

I drove to Bangkok last Thursday to visit Dave, and decided to stay a couple of nights, the reasons for which I have written about elsewhere.

Before leaving Pattaya I was surprised to hear from Dave’s lady that he had discharged himself and was once more back at home.

So at least I didn’t have to go to the hospital and was able to see him at home, where I received a briefing from his lady before going up to his bedroom for a chat. He was extremely weak, and could barely sit up, but was fairly lucid and able to hold a conversation. He had lost the feeling in one foot and was concerned about it.

I didn’t see him again until Saturday morning, by which time he had become visibly stronger, and was even able to hobble a little, but still had some problems with the feeling in one foot. We had a long chat, and he was starting to focus on every day issues, such as his finances and so on.

I didn’t tell him that I had been in constant contact with his family in the UK, as I knew it would upset him, and I wanted him to get stronger before I told him what had been happening.

What had actually happened was that his sister in law had called me, following my earlier call to advise her that Dave was at the point of death, and we had started a dialogue. I had kept them informed of Dave’s condition, and they had confirmed to me that his monthly allowance would continue to be sent, provided that he didn’t take another drink. They asked me to pass on to Dave that all money would stop if he ever picked up another drink.

Dave’s Lady, and another lady who has been helping to take care of him have both told me that they will leave him for good if he ever tried to drink again. At long last, Dave’s Lady has agreed to keep all booze out of the house, and has instructed the local booze shops to refuse any telephoned orders.

There is no doubt that he was at the point of death when admitted to hospital, (confirmed by the doctors), as his liver was full of water and had more or less ceased to function and his general condition was critical.

So once more – remarkably – Dave has come back from the dead, but this surely must be his final, final chance, if it is not already too late for long term survival, which is more than possible.

I returned to Pattaya with the intention of going back to see Dave on this coming Friday with Bob, who was scheduled to fly in to meet me, but Bob has now postponed for a week so I will not be going.

Yesterday Dave was re-admitted to hospital for further tests as he still has not regained full feeling in his foot, and he can hardly walk. He will be discharged tomorrow. I spoke to him and he sounded quite strong. The doctors have told him it will take at least three months for him to make a full recovery, provided of course that he doesn’t take a drink.

We shall see what transpires.

A few things have been going on to keep me from this blog over the past few days.

I have been going through a few ‘ups and downs’ in my quest to find sobriety and peace of mind.

As I wrote to a friend last week, I have been “in and out” of booze, “in and out” of bars, and “in and out” of relationships, of one sort or another.

All pretty turgid stuff  which in the end has taken me nowhere, but ever further to rock bottom.

I didn’t think that my readers wanted to read more of the same, and I didn’t particularly relish all the condemnatory comments which would inevitably spring forth.

So I just took a bit of a holiday from my writing, notwithstanding the fact that on many days I was in no condition to write anything.

For those of you who have been long time followers of my blog, you will know that I do have these periodic absences, and maybe they are a good thing as it gives me a bit of a rest from daily writing, and refreshes my ‘creative juices’.

Then, at the end of last week I was in Bangkok for three days to visit with Dave, and that was not a particularly pleasant experience.

Since I returned to Pattaya, I have been laid low with severe food poisoning.

I ate a load of dodgy, raw oysters last Saturday evening, and have been ill ever since. I haven’t eaten for two days and am so weak that I spend most of my time sleeping, only to wake up for another visit to the loo – to pass ever more liquid.

I dragged myself to see a Doctor today, but apart from changing the main antibiotic, he prescribed the same electrolytes, as I was already taking and told me what I already know – no food, no milk, plenty of water, and so on. He told me that I was very low on salts (he could not detect any in my stomach by feeling it), which accounted for my weak, dehydrated state.

This illness may be a blessing in disguise as I haven’t taken a drink since Saturday, and the enforced abstinence may help to wean me off the booze. I was really struggling to stop.

Anyway, hopefully back soon, with more tales of my ‘exciting’ life – and believe me – the tales never stop!

Assuming I don’t pass away in the meantime!!