Farang! - by David Thompson - Chapter 1

To tell the truth, I don’t know what it was that started her off. Something trivial I expect. Something about money. It’s nearly always about money. I don’t earn enough, that’s the problem. I don’t make enough to take care of her and her family properly. Not any more. Nowadays I earn just about enough to keep us clothed and fed. Not much left for luxuries.

That was it. I remember now. It all started when she told me her cousin wanted to buy a small holding to grow rice. Yes, that was how it started. I told her I couldn’t help, that I didn’t have any spare cash. She sulked for a while, I remember that. The bloody sulking. Horrible that is. She’s damned good at it too.

The problem is that I can’t afford anything new. Can’t even afford to buy a rice paddy and, God knows, it was certainly cheap enough. Not yet at any rate. I’m a teacher. I teach English to kids who want to learn. Most times I teach it to kids who don’t want to learn. Doesn’t matter to me. I still get paid. Admittedly, I don’t get paid much, but I still get paid. I certainly earn a lot more than my Thai counterparts, and work less hours, but it still isn’t enough. I’m a farang, that’s the problem. Farang are always expected to have money even when they actually have none. It’s all about the money. Nothing else matters. Not love. Not emotion. Nothing. Just the money.

That isn’t true, though. Not the whole truth, anyway. It’s not money she wants; it’s security. A place and a life that makes her feel secure, safe and cared for. Same as any woman, I suppose. It’s just that over here the pressure is greater. The pressure from her family, her friends, her associates. They expect her to have it all. Expect her to be able to help them when they need it. Because of who I am. A farang. They just don’t understand.

To be honest, I think she’s had enough of me now. I don’t expect her to be around for much longer. Probably has her escape route all worked out. I’ve probably just played right into her hands and given her the perfect opportunity to leave. Shame really. I do love her. There are times when I don’t like her much but, at the same time, I really do love her. I mean who, in their right mind, wouldn’t? She’s a beautiful woman. Very kind and caring most of the time. Well, when she’s not sulking, anyway.

It all started when I first arrived two years ago. I hadn’t known what to expect. I just came for a holiday. Two weeks in Thailand with one night in Bangkok. Yes, just like the song; One Night in Bangkok. I wanted to get that in. As it happened, I’d booked three nights in Bangkok. Doesn’t sound as good though, does it?

I’ll tell you the story. I might have to break off if the phone rings or there’s a key in the door. I hope she comes back. I’d like to tell her I’m sorry. Try to explain to her where the good times went. Where all the money went. Try to tell her that I understand if she wants to move on. It can’t be much fun for her anymore and, as I said before, I do love her very much.

In the beginning it was great. When the money flowed. Then she enjoyed herself; had a wonderful time. To tell the truth, so did I. Funny how life comes along and spoils things isn’t it?

Anyway, I’ll start at the beginning and see if I can explain everything. It’s not easy trying to understand a culture that is so different from my own but I’ll give it a go; tell you my story. Perhaps both of us will learn something from it. Who knows?

My name is Robert Church and I’m a forty-eight year old teacher. I’ve always been a teacher, ever since I left school. In fact you could say that I never left school. Started when I was four years old. Still there forty-four years later, and still learning.

Like I said, I teach English. Back home in England that’s pretty easy. I mean, it’s my language, right? Shouldn’t be too difficult. By the time I reached forty-six I decided that it must have been nigh on impossible. In the last two years teaching had become a real chore. A daily grind that I continued because I didn’t have anything better to do. Something had gone wrong. The kids we were turning out could hardly speak their own language, let alone write or understand it.

Oh, there were a few. A few naturals. There were one or two that could actually decipher Hamlet, but the majority, the bulk of the kids, couldn’t even spell well enough to write graffiti on the school walls, let alone know anything about the eponymous character.

I’m often reminded of the film Life of Brian. The scene when the Roman soldier tells the graffiti artist he’s spelt it wrong and makes him write it out a hundred times. There were so many times when I caught a kid spraying something defamatory on a wall. I always felt the urge to tell him, or her, how to spell “fascist” properly.

I remember one time, I turned up for work in the morning, a Monday I think it was, to find that some kids had virtually covered the front wall of the school, including the doors and windows, with red spray paint. Names of teachers, the head teacher, even dinner ladies, all inter-connected with various vulgarities expounding the fact that the artists didn’t much like them.

“What do you think, Church?” the head asked.

I had just strolled through the front gates and joined him and the other teachers who were all eyeing the large lettering with distaste.

I noticed my own name, alongside several others, that seemed to imply the school secretary was involved in some extremely peculiar extra curriculum activities. The drawings weren’t too bad but the grammar was awful.

“Well, sir,” I answered. “I think I’m going to have to go over possessive pronouns again.”

“Yes. Very droll, Church.”

The head was a bit of an old fashioned type when it came to his staff. We all called him “Sir” because we didn’t want to use his chosen moniker of “Major” Wilkinson. Too many syllables. In turn, he used our surnames whenever he deigned to speak with us. I didn’t mind him actually. A bit of a stickler when it came to the rules but, other than that, a good enough bloke.

“Gone too far this time, Church. Too far, by far!”

I could tell he wasn’t too pleased. I guessed it was because his name was linked, quite unceremoniously, with the incredibly fat school nurse. I suspect he would have preferred my position alongside the secretary.

“Good job they signed their names then, sir,” I told him.

“Get ‘em up to the office, Church. Quick as you can, man.”

That was the stupidity we, as teachers, were faced with in England. At the beginning of this century the kids we were turning out were so bloody thick they even signed their handiwork. Seriously, I’m not joking. Four names, clearly written in red paint. One spelt incorrectly.

To tell the truth, I was beginning to show signs of boredom in those days. I didn’t recognise them at first. I was just going through the monotony of living each day as it presented itself. Get up in the morning, go to school, try to explain the English alphabet to fifteen and sixteen year old kids, go home, mark endless reams of homework, go to bed, get up and repeat. The weekends weren’t much better. Get up late, go shopping, do some laundry, go for a beer or three; that was about it. The only consolations were the holidays.

That was what got me interested in teaching in the first place. The long holidays. Six weeks in the summer, another three at Christmas, two at Easter and loads more little ones in between. At first it seemed like heaven but, after the divorce, after the smoke had cleared and the dust had settled, I began to loathe the holidays. Nothing to do. No one to do it with. Boring.

As the end of the summer term approached, I looked forward to another six weeks of holiday with some trepidation. I really didn’t know what I was going to do.

The other teachers had wives, husbands or, to be politically correct, partners. Some masochistic types even had children of their own. They all took off to some far-flung corners of the world and spent their carefree days relaxing in some tropical haven.

I was looking forward to one week in Blackpool visiting my sister, and five additional weeks of continuous tedium. Even the week in Blackpool wasn’t something I was looking forward to. Been there, bought the tee shirt, as the saying goes.

My sister, Susan, had moved north twelve years ago to be with the man she loved. Two children and a divorce later and she was still there. Called it her home. I suppose it was really. Twelve years in the same place and that place definitely becomes your home.

Since our Mother died she hadn’t been back down south. No reason to come all that way. Our Dad died years ago, when we were both quite young, and to come all that way just to see a brother who lived alone in a three bed-roomed semi did seem a bit pointless.

No, the thought of spending another week in Blackpool with my sister and her kids didn’t exactly fill me with joy. What I really needed was a kick up the backside. Something to jolt my senses back into the land of the living. Something different. Something that would take my breath away and leave me ready to start the next term with a renewed vigour for life. A test to prove I was still alive. A challenge of some sort.

Unbeknown to me, the so called “male menopause” was kicking in. In an effort to recapture our misspent youth some of my friends and I had bought super-sized motorcycles. Others bought themselves sports cars and another, in a moment of madness, had purchased a small aeroplane! My bike’s a Honda Fireblade. Nine hundred cc’s of pure power. A racing bike built for the road. Scare’s the hell out of me, to tell the truth, and on the rare occasions that I ride it, I spend most of my time in third gear! It really hadn’t done much to relieve the growing tedium of my life.

That night, after the head and I had finished speaking to the parents of the four kids involved in the graffiti, I went home to contemplate why we bothered.

“They’re just kids.” We had been told, time and time again.

The parents, two single mums, a single dad and one couple who weren’t speaking to each other, just couldn’t understand why we were upset.

“It’s criminal damage!” the head cried.

“Well, it’s not like they meant anything by it,” the single dad smiled at his son. “He’s just letting off steam.”

“It’s because they haven’t got anything better to do,” one of the single mums defended her spotty vandal.

“They could do their homework,” I pointed out.

“That’s the problem, you see,” another mum jumped in. “It’s all work for the kids these days. The pressure is too much for them.”

The four teenagers sat there in bored resignation whilst we argued with the parents. One of them was picking his nose and wiping what he found on the chair.

None of the parents found anything wrong with their offspring’s behaviour. Not one. I gave up and sat back in my chair whilst the head droned on about the virtues of military training.

It was all a waste of time. The kids couldn’t care less. The parents wouldn’t punish them and the country slowly but surely went to the dogs.

In the end, when the head had reached the end of his monotonous lecture, the parents left the office with their little lambs trailing along behind them. As they turned the corridor, I clearly heard one of them berate their son.

“What the hell did you sign your name for? Showing me up like that!”

With parents like that the kids didn’t stand a chance. That was it, you see. No one gave a damn anymore. England, in those days, had no way of dealing with wayward children. Discipline didn’t exist. There was no punishment that could be administered legally. Illegally yes, but even the head drew the line when it came to shooting graffiti artists.

We weren’t even allowed to throw chalk at the little cherubs. Not that we used chalk anymore. It was all interactive whiteboards and computers. Waste of money, in my opinion. The kids soon learned how to copy and paste. Most times their homework assignments came complete with “Encarta World English Dictionary Microsoft Corporation All rights reserved” as a footnote. I always tried to set work that couldn’t be garnered from the internet but it wasn’t an easy task. Some bright spark had even invented a question and answer session for Yahoo! All a kid had to do was post up the homework question and an answer would arrive within seconds. Copy and paste; homework done.

Anyway, as I say, I went home to another evening of marking badly spelt essays and indiscriminate use of punctuation. Even the internet boffins made the occasional grammatical error. The red pen would undoubtedly wreak havoc on the scrawled attempts at English that night.

When I opened the door there it was. On the floor, amongst all the other junk mail and free coupons offering me ten pence off the price of a can of beans; a glossy flyer endorsing the holiday of a lifetime.

According to the leaflet, which I thumbed whilst putting the kettle on, there was “only one place in the whole world where a weary worker could while away a well earned holiday.” Whilst I pondered over the alliteration, and added sugar to my tea, I read on.

“The mysterious and oriental land of smiles welcomes you, the hard working westerner, to a tropical paradise. During your stay you will be able to partake of many things, including stunning scuba diving, beautiful scenery, ancient temple visits and significant landmarks of archaeological importance, as well as white water rafting, elephant rides and culinary the like of which you have never tasted before.

“Also, for those of you who are single, alone, or suicidal, the welcoming smiles of the Thai girls will make all your troubles go away. Come and enjoy the wonderful nightlife that can only be experienced in Thailand!”

Now, I have to say that, although the brochure was obviously written by someone who had yet to achieve anything higher than a D-minus in English, the photographs were first class. The smiling faces of beautiful young Thai girls beckoning to me to join them were captivating to say the least.

One girl, in particular, stared out at me with the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Her hands were held in front of her, as though in prayer, and her delicate fingertips gently caressed the smooth roundness of her chin. Her deep brown eyes looked at me with all the guile and coyness of the Mona Lisa. One photograph of a young Thai girl and I was already hooked!

They have a way of capturing your heart over here. Your heart, your head, your soul and your wallet. A bit harsh perhaps. I mean, it’s not like we have to fall in love is it? We don’t have to give them everything they ask for, do we?

I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I’ll get back on track. It’s difficult to concentrate because I’m hoping the phone will ring, or perhaps there’ll be a key in the door. Anyway, back to the story.

The more I looked at the flyer the more I wanted to go and see for myself what Thailand had to offer. The thought of two weeks spent in the company of girls who would make all my troubles go away sounded most appealing and I wasn’t even suicidal.

Over the course of the next few days, I scoured the internet for more information and I discovered more about the place. Lots more.

I read forums, news articles, demography by region and resource per capita. Yes, I know but like I said, I never did leave school.

Thailand is roughly twice the size of the United Kingdom and has almost the same sized population. The main religion is Buddhism and, by all accounts the Thai take their religion very seriously. The reports I read all spoke of how tolerant the Thai people were in their dealings with each other and foreigners, or “farang” as we white westerners are known.

By the time I finished, I had a pretty good knowledge of all things Thai and a hard drive with half a ton of pornography stored on it.

Always the same, isn’t it? Do a search for national flags and, more than likely, there will be someone doing something they ought not to be! Sign of our times.

So, armed with all my new found knowledge, I booked a two week holiday to Phuket, in the south of Thailand as well as three nights sightseeing in Bangkok.

Not only was I now looking forward to a fun filled week in Blackpool, I was also going to fly six thousand miles around the world to a tropical paradise. Suddenly, the summer holidays held less in the way of trepidation and more in the way of anticipation. I couldn’t wait!

I decided on Phuket because of what I saw on the internet. I was keen to have a go at scuba diving, something I had never done before, and it seemed as if Phuket had some great dive sites to offer. The beautiful white beaches looked equally inviting and, it has to be said, the nightlife of Patong appeared somewhat tempting to say the least!

Finally the holidays arrived. The school term ended on a high with many of the older pupils leaving school forever. The last day has always been a cause of concern for the teachers. We never know what the little angels will do. Burn the place down? Blow it up? Kill the head? We, being the staff, always looked forward to the last day of summer term with a keen curiosity brought about through fear.

One or two of the more fragile members of staff always called in sick. Miss Fringles, the librarian, who had been at the school for sixteen years, never turned up for what promised to be the most exciting day of the year.

Our wonderful children, the future of our once great nation and the beloved of so many ex-hippies from the sixties and seventies, didn’t let us down. Mr Shaw’s two-seat Japanese sports car was very carefully manhandled onto the physics lab flat roof utilising only two planks of wood and some old rope; the fire alarm was set off three times; the dinner ladies were forced to eat their own lunch and the school nurse had half her dress ripped off by the clever use of a hook, a piece of string and a swinging door.

My thoughts were that, all in all, the pupils had shown themselves to be extremely enterprising both in their planning of the attacks and the final application.

My last day surprise was very ingenious and involved the use of two pressurised cans of whipped cream, several small pulleys, some wire, a carefully angled piece of wood and some super glue. The idea was simple.

A small amount of super glue on my desk drawer would mean that I would have to pull it hard to open it. This extra force would allow the back of the drawer to yank on the wires that had been carefully attached using small woodscrews and hooks.

The wires in turn would, via the use of the pulleys, force the carefully placed piece of wood to shoot forward onto the base of the two cans of whipped cream. The cans would then be pushed up to the front of the drawer and, with the caps pressed firmly against the wood, fire their contents into my face.

As far as the plan went it was a good one. The only problem was that there was too much glue and I couldn’t open the drawer. Several of the pupils helped and, in the end, most of us were covered in the cream.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for that,” I said, wiping the artificial dairy product from my face and neck. “What would you like to do on this, the last day of your childhood?”

“Go home!” That seemed to be the general consensus and I was sorely tempted.

“Sorry, we have the Head’s speech this afternoon and I know none of you want to miss that.”

The classroom filled with good humoured groans. The Head’s speeches were always something the kids looked forward to with eager anticipation.

“We could go over The Iliad,” I shouted, above the noise.

“What for, sir?” Jones, at the back of the class laughed. “We’ll never need to use it!”

“No, Jones. I don’t expect you will,” I answered. “So, come on then, you young adults, this is the last day of school and the first of your adulthood, what do you want to talk about?”

“Sex!”

“Jones, do try and use your brain. I know it was replaced with one of your testicles when you were younger, but do at least try.”

The rest of the class erupted into laughter and Jones reddened considerably. It was the only way we could have any control. We had to use sarcasm, or belittle them in front of their friends. The only weapon we had in our arsenal was our wit. Outsmart them or surrender to a life of living hell.

Roberts, the history teacher, had surrendered a long time ago. He couldn’t face a class without first facing his whiskey. The kids murdered him every day. He’d died a thousand deaths in front of them and expected a thousand more to follow before he could retire completely to the haven of the bottle. I guess I was lucky in that I taught English. The kids couldn’t keep up.

“What you doing this holiday, sir?”

The question had come from Rachel Nevens. A sweet little thing who wore her skirt so short it became a belt. She sat right at the front and spent every class crossing and uncrossing her legs. Over the two years I had spent teaching her absolutely nothing, her breasts had developed so that now she could attack on three fronts, so to speak.

“It’s what ‘are’ you doing this holiday, Nevens. Apart from going to Blackpool, I’m also going to Thailand this year,” I said with a smile, whilst looking directly into her eyes and nowhere else.

“What you going there for, sir?” Pettit, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cricket and soccer captain asked.

“To swim, scuba dive and relax on golden beaches in the heat of the tropical sun, Pettit,” I told him, whilst ignoring the fact that he’d dropped the second person singular present tense of the verb “be”.

“Betcha meet a lady boy, sir!” Jones again.

“Probably, Jones. But if I do I’ll certainly give him, or her, your telephone number, don’t worry.”

If anyone in that class was going to know about lady boys, it would be Jones. Jones knew all there was to know about all things sexual. Couldn’t spell “sexual” but he could look at the pictures well enough.

“What’s a lady boy?” Beasley, a bit of a shy lad, asked.

The classroom erupted into howls of laughter. Shouts of “Don’t you know?” and “You are!’ echoed around the room. Poor Beasley. I felt quite sorry for him.

“Okay then. Apart from you, Jones. Hands up who can tell me what defines a lady boy?” I asked them.

Several hands shot into the air, including, of course, young Jones. I chose another.

“Right then, Whitley. Let’s hear your definition.”

“It’s a bloke wot wants to be a woman, sir,” he said, with a grin.

“It’s a bloke who has his dick cut off, sir!” Jones added, most helpfully.

“Was that a premature ejaculation, Jones, or did you intentionally mean to spurt off?” I asked him.

Sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire. Sometimes the only way to earn any kind of respect from the kids is to use their language, albeit modified to include more polite vernacular.

“Very well, Whitely. Let’s assume you’re right. A man that wants to be a woman. That can happen anywhere, can’t it? I mean, we read articles in the newspapers about men having sex change operations, right?”

I doubt any of them read newspapers but they were bright enough to realise I included watching television.

“Aren’t they the same then, sir?” Parsons asked.

“Well, in some ways yes, but in other ways no. Lady boys are often referred to in Thailand as kathoey which, when translated into English, means ‘a type of male’. A sex that lies between men and women,” I told them.

What I didn’t tell them at that point was that I had discovered the information on the internet. I expect Jones had as well but, unlike him, I read encyclopaedic texts rather than pornography. Well, mostly.

“So they ain’t men and they ain’t women?” Whitely observed.

“In Thai culture they are accepted as a third sex. They often have beauty pageants just for lady boys. In one school in Chiang Mai, they have separate toilets for kathoey.”

“What about sex, then? What do they do?” Nevens asked.

“Traditionally, they like sex with straight men, but there are records of kathoey who still prefer women,” I explained. “One of the most well known kathoey was a champion Thai kick boxer who used to wear makeup into the ring.”

“What? A boxer who wanted to be a woman! No way!” A denial from Roberts.

“Yes way, Roberts,” I told him. “There’s a film you can watch.”

“What, a blue movie?” Jones again.

“No, Jones. A mainstream movie regarding his life, or I should say ‘her’ life, called Beautiful Boxer. Maybe you could rent it out instead of Amateur Wives version sixteen?”

“How’d you know all this, sir?” Beasley was sticking his head out again.

“Well, believe it or not, the internet is a very useful tool for those people who want to learn something. I searched for information regarding Thailand and came across a site that linked everything together.”

“So, you spent your time reading all about lady boys, eh sir?” Nevens asked, as she crossed her legs.

“Yes, Nevens. All my time reading about people who were brave enough to stand up for themselves and follow their hearts instead of being sheep and following fashion.” I smiled with the belief that I’d scored a point.

The fact was that all the things I had learned about Thailand and its people were as nothing compared to the lessons I would be taught when I arrived. A country with girls so beautiful they would take your breath away. A country populated by people so kind and friendly that you would often be left speechless. A country whose people had only one goal in life. That goal was to leave you breathless, speechless and poor. The poorer, the better! God love ‘em.

Once again, I find myself surging ahead. I’m sorry. I have to tell this story properly and I should take it one step at a time. It isn’t easy though. The phone hasn’t rung and there’s been no sound at the door. I’ll carry on. I’m learning something as I write. I never thought about it before but I guess, in a way, I miss the kids I taught back home.

The dreaded day finally ended. We’d got through yet another year and were looking forward to a six week break away from the politics of the classroom. I’d miss young Jones but there would be another just like him the following year to sharpen my middle-aged wit.

As soon as I’d helped Shaw, along with some other members of staff, to get his car off the physics lab roof, I walked away from Southsea Secondary High School and, as it happened, never returned. Not to teach, anyway.

I do hold fond memories of the place. Happy times spent in the classroom battling to get thirty odd kids to read a book. To help them understand the glories of man from some of the greatest minds the world has ever known. To fill them with a desire, a thirst for knowledge, and help them to become better, more informed, adults. Maybe, deep down, somewhere inside of me, I’m a masochist?

At the time, I walked away sound in the knowledge that I would return. That I would start the following year with a mind made easy from two weeks in the sun, two weeks relaxing and two weeks in the company of beautiful girls that would placate my worries and stop me from feeling suicidal. First though, I had to spend a week in Blackpool with my sister, two children, two dogs and a one-eyed cat called Nelson. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? My niece and nephew didn’t have the greatest imaginations in the world.

I drove my bike up to Blackpool. I thought it would be fun but, unfortunately, it poured down most of the way. I arrived cold, wet and stiff from hunching down behind the extremely inadequate windscreen.

As soon as I sat down, as soon as I’d finished petting the dogs, the children and the cat, I told Susan where I was going the following week.

“What for?” she asked, as she made the tea.

“To see the world, Susan. To broaden my horizons, to take in the beauty and sample the tranquillity that is South East Asia,” I told her, remembering what the leaflet had described.

“Robert, the furthest you’ve been in years is to visit me here. You never go anywhere. Never do anything.” She looked a little incredulous.

“Well, then it’s about time I did!” I laughed. “To be honest I’m a little bored at the moment.”

“You need to get married again, Robert. Have children,” she told me, as she passed me a cup.

“No, I don’t think so, Sue,” I gave her my usual answer. “I see enough children at work. I certainly don’t want any at home.”

“Even so, marriage would be good for you.”

My sister is one of those women who think that an unmarried man is half a man. Not a real man at all. How can he be without a woman at his side? Since my last attempt had failed, she constantly griped that I was alone. She meant well though and I guess she was right. I was pretty lonely.

Mind you, she managed very well without a husband. I suppose women are still women, with or without a man.

“Well, you never know, I may come back with a little Asian beauty,” I joked.

“Oh, I’d like that. It would be nice to have an Asian sister-in-law.”

She actually meant it!

“Yeah, well don’t hold your breath, Sis,” I laughed.

“Robert, you really aren’t living at the moment, you know. How can you be, all alone like that? You need to find a soul mate,” she said, as she sat on the couch beside me. “Do you want a biscuit?”

She held out an assortment of custard creams and digestives. I took a digestive and dunked it in my tea.

“What about you? You’re all alone,” I said.

“No, Robert. I have the children.”

“The thing is, Susan, that after Alice, I don’t really want another soul mate.”

Alice had been my wife and my first soul mate. Alice had been everyone’s soul mate. She had that way about her. She smiled at everyone and laughed in all the right places. When we were in company she was the light and soul of the party. Everyone loved Alice.

It was when we were alone that things changed. When there was no one around to impress. She changed when there was no company. She became miserable and morose. And boy, could she drink! Never in company though. When we finally parted everyone was amazed. Everyone wanted to know how I could bear to part with such a wonderful and clever person.

The truth was that Alice was wonderful and clever to everyone else and a pain in the backside to me. When she told me about the new man in her life and the fact that he was charming, witty, funny, wealthy and all the things that I wasn’t, I wanted to shake his hand and commiserate with him. Poor bastard.

I’ve met him since. Quite a few times in fact. His daughter attends my school. He’s got that faraway look in his eyes now. The look that says “I want to be as far away from here as is humanly possible.” I always shake his hand and smile when I see him.

“Well, whatever,” Susan said, dragging my thoughts back to the present. “Once bitten, twice shy isn’t always right, Robert.”

“Okay, Sis. Tell you what. As soon as I get back, I’ll order a new soul mate and live happily ever after, okay?” I smiled as I said it.

“Well, you can joke about it now but I’m not looking after you when you’re old and frail.”

“Oh hell. I was depending upon that,” I told her. “Now I’ll definitely have to get myself a raven-haired little Asian.”

We both laughed at the time but little did I realise just how prophetic my words actually were.

My week in Blackpool went very well, surprisingly enough. I spent a few mornings walking the dogs on the beach, taking the kids to the funfair in the afternoon and trying to get Nelson’s claws out of my legs in the evenings.

“Are you sure this is a cat?” I asked Susan towards the end of the week as we sat watching the box.

“Yes. He’s a short haired Selkirk Rex. They’re very rare,” she told me proudly.

“Why’s he only got one eye?” I asked, whilst thinking that if the damned moggy didn’t get it’s claws out of my leg, short haired Selkirk Rex’s were going to become even more rare!

“Next door’s dog got it when he was a kitten,” Sue answered.

“Yeah? What happened to the dog?” I asked, as I ripped Nelson off my lap and plonked him on the floor.

“Died of old age in the end. Well, that and the fact that when Nelson grew up he terrorised the poor little thing. Heart gave out I suspect.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said, as Nelson turned and gave a one-eyed stare that didn’t bode well for my chinos.

“So, Robert. What have you got planned for Thailand then? I hope you’re not going to be one of those middle-aged men sat in a bar perving young girls?”

I have always been amazed at my sisters ability to get right to the heart of a subject without any thought of introduction or preamble.

“Well, I’ll probably go for a beer, Sis,” I answered. “Not too sure about the girls though. I doubt if any will stay long enough for me to perve.”

“Don’t be daft, Robert. From what I’ve heard you’ll be just what they’re looking for,” Sue said, without looking away from the television.

“Really? Well, I hope you’re right!” I laughed.

“No, seriously, Robert,” Now she did look at me. “You be on your guard out there. The girls that work in the bars are very clever.”

“How do you know all this then?” I asked her.

“You and the kids aren’t the only ones who know how to click a mouse, Robert,” she said, indicating the computer sat in the corner of the room.

“Not everything on there is true, Sue,” I smiled. “Some of it is, but not all.”

“Well, even if only some of it’s true, it’s enough for you to be careful,” she said, and returned her attention to the sixth re-run of Only Fools and Horses.

“I deal with young girls, and boys, everyday, Sue. I reckon I’ll be okay.” I gave a knowing smile.

“Hmm,” she answered.

(End of Chapter 1.)

David Thompson

© David Thompson. All rights reserved by the author.
ISBN: 978-974-7291-803
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