Memories.

I was going to discuss all this supernatural business with Oscar then I thought sod it. Why waste a profound intellectual topic on him. He would only sneer and make ribald comments.

And besides ghosts don’t exist. Not that I can prove it mind. That’s just my opinion. But I must admit it does seem strange that we spend our lives developing our wonderful complex selves just so the lights go out and we get plunged into darkness forever.  Or wander around in limbo like lost souls.

What we do get is a lot of memories. Maybe that’s what ghosts are. Our memories and other people’s memories of us. They don’t wear bedsheets and walk through walls but they know how to haunt.

I’ve been reading Marcel Proust. Don’t laugh. There’s not a lot to do here on Oscar’s place and I found a copy of ‘In Search of Lost Time’ in his library. Oscar has an eclectic connection of books. Everything from Goethe to Terry Southern, Dante to Bukowski (signed first editions).

There was a time when the supply of days seemed inexhaustible. Now I can count the time I have left  Ten years if I’m lucky. Decades pass like weeks. Memories. Pleasant ones, nasty ones, they never leave us alone do they? Some are in clear focus others get mixed up and embellished. Some are major events others are just occurrences. Too  many of the damn things. Listing them is pointless. Only one thing is certain….time passes.

Air raid wardens sipping tea in the kitchen (lino on the floor), watching black and white TV by a coal fire, smoking Woodbines behind the bike-shed, snogging in the cinema (trying to get a bra off), Butlins Skegness, Soho Square, sleeping on Brighton beach, hitch-hiking in France, Athens, the Plaka, Sultan Ahmet mosque…..first puff on a Jhelum,  Indian trains, Notting Hill Gate,  helping Syd Barrett cross the road, Indica, watching John Lennon climb that fateful ladder, eating  rice & beans in Speightstown, watching Fred Astaire dance….

Memories flit past, blurred, vivid, fragments of conversation, lines from songs… Some are more memorable than others and sometimes the old memory just needs a nudge and they come flooding back.   …..Just as, on a more mundane level, one remembers certain bowel movements and particular copulations. 

A word of caution when dealing with memories. Sometimes you can disturb a nest of bad ones. They come swarming out at you…guilt, shame, regrets…. and don’t get me started on remorse.

Best get back to reality. I am on a private island in BVI getting ready to go on a half-arsed treasure hunt and Lemmy just croaked.

Cremation part 4 or 3b. The Fighting Temeraire.

Before we get too far into Pt.3b it should be noted that the author had more than a little trouble with this part. It was supposed to flow smoothly on from part 3 but the narrator got in a muddle. Omniscience fatigue most likely. Tense changes, flashbacks etc. are never easy to write. Things got so bad he went back to part 3 and made some changes. Arthur’s mother’s ghost showing up was the main problem. She could easily send the narrative off on a wild uncontrollable tangent. So he shuttled her into the bathroom and instead of Arthur nodding off we now find him staring at Turner’s ‘Fighting Temeraire’ on the hotel wall. It’s a cheap reproduction, one of millions, but it’s something to focus on, and for Arthur it may contain the answer he is looking for. Or not. The author is now thinking the whole passage should be filed under SF Pt. 3c.
It had been quite a confusing day. It began with the cremation. Then the meeting with the estate agent. Then came the first train journey on the Brighton Line in twenty years followed by lunch with Simon in Sticky Fingers. Plenty of fodder for rumination there. But Arthur is starting to drift off. He has entered that nebulous state just before sleep comes. This is fertile ground for writers. Ideas seem to appear out of nowhere; whole paragraphs pop up fully formed. The trick is to write them down. Put it off and they vanish. So in theory Arthur should be nodding off except for the voices in the bathroom. One female, middle-class English; the other male, mid-Western American.
‘OK. One of my cats got in a fight with a coon.’ Says the sepulchral American voice.
‘Oh dear.’ Says the English voice. Arthur knows it well, ‘Nothing serious I hope.’
‘He’s got one eye out and an ear hanging off.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I stitched him up. He’s a tough bastard. Should be OK. Shot the coon. Used the Colt. Wasn’t much left of him.’
The English voice is familiar of course. It’s Arthur’s dead mother. The American voice is familiar but hard to place. Arthur badly wants to go to sleep but he is intrigued. These are voices from beyond after all. Perhaps they know something.
‘Tell me Mr. Burroughs…’
‘Call me Bill.’
‘Regrets. Do you regret anything er, Bill?’
‘Everything.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Oh man. Well killing Joan of course. That was wrong. Taking another human life, even by accident, is wrong.’
‘But it freed you up to write. You’re on record as saying you wouldn’t have started writing if the William Tell incident hadn’t happened.’
‘It’s true. Writing became a compulsion because of that. A way of keeping my sanity.’
‘And of suppressing the guilt?’
‘That too. You’ve done your homework. I failed as a father too you know.’
‘So you’ve made a few mistakes?’
‘You could say that.’

‘Er, Bill, there’s no actual plotline in most of your work is there?’

‘Naked Lunch you mean? That’s true. There never was a storyline. It was just a bunch of stuff I wrote when I was out of my pod. I called them routines. Ginsberg put it all together. Made a book out of it.’

This is absurd, thinks Arthur. My mother’s ghost is in the bathroom interviewing William Burroughs! She knows nothing about writing. He’s dead too come to think of it. Who’s writing this stuff anyway? Now comes the sound of the toilet flushing. What are they doing in there? What does it all mean? Don’t expect an answer. The author doesn’t know either. Another reason to avoid using an intrusive narrator. Best to skip the whole episode and move to Pt. 4.

But the ghosts aren’t quite done yet.

‘Shouldn’t there be some kind of resolution?’ asks Arthur’\s mother’s ghost. ‘We can’t just leave Arthur hanging like that can we?’

‘Sure we can,’ says William Burrough’s ghost. ‘ Literature has changed a lot you know. You can do pretty well what you want. Look at my cut-ups for instance. They made no sense at all but people love that stuff. They supply their own meaning. Let Arthur’s mind wander wherever it wants to go. He’ll be fine.’

‘Well I suppose you’re right. I’m not a writer so who am I to say. But mothers can’t help worrying you know. Poor Arthur. He never was a normal child.’

Cremation pt 3. The Apparition.

He makes it safely back to his unexciting hotel room conveniently situated behind Victoria Station with its ‘large and comfortable centrally heated rooms that are stylishly decorated with contemporary furnishings accented with tasteful artwork and soft colour tones. All the new rooms have en-suite facilities and feature Electronic Key cards, Direct Dial Telephone, Hospitality Tray, Hairdryer, and colour TV with remote control. Comfortable bedding and double glazed windows set the stage for a wonderful nights (sic) sleep. Newly refurbished bathrooms include individually thermostatically controlled heated towel-racks and bidet, Rooms from 100 pounds per person per night.’ It has a picture of the Queen Mother above the reception desk. One of Princess Di on the staircase.

Arthur washes his feet in the bidet and switches on the colour TV. First the news to see who’s bombing who then a quick flip through the other channels. Bunch of tattooed people insulting each other in a house. That would be reality show I expect thinks Arthur. Girls shaking their tits at each other. Ditto. What is he hoping to find? David Frost? Parkinson? The Goon Show? No such luck.

But what’s this? Simon! Hosting some panel discussion it looks like with a lot of people Arthur doesn’t know. They are talking about censorship, the greatest literary dilemma of our age according to one of the assembled pundits.
“Well,” says Simon, “I wouldn’t go quite that far. But it’s a problem. On the one hand we want total free expression but it means we have to put up with Penthouse and the other stuff.”
“Oh,” says someone a bit too archly, “you don’t approve of Penthouse, Simon?”
But they can’t catch him. Simon, sensing a political correctness trap, says, “well let’s just say it doesn’t do much for me.”

Arthur’s mind wanders back to the conversation in the restaurant. It had not been just like old times. Not at all. If was as if they had both wanted to recapture some of those moments from places like Aldermaston, Eel Pie island, Paris, Athens, Kabul…but neither of them was prepared to fake it. They had both gone too far along their separate ways. And now this, watching Simon on TV.

“Well I don’t give a flying fuck!” says a woman on the panel who looks like an older version of some groovy chick Arthur had met somewhere. UFO? The Stones free concert in Hyde Park? Isle of Wight?
“Ah Caroline showing your sixties side again,” says Simon provocatively, “dates you a bit darling doesn’t it? You’ve been very quiet lately by the way. Not doing any TV?”
“It’s the silence of Duchamp.”
“Bollocks.” Says Simon. “What about you Martin? Anything in the pipeline we should know about?”

“Memoirsh,” says the one called Martin. He seems to have a stiff jaw,” and dentisht.” And so on. Simon is clearly in his element. It’s a performance he’s obviously given more than once before. Amazing really the way he seems to give all the panelists a few moments in the sun whilst remaining the center of attention himself. And he does it in such a good-natured way. There is no hint of any inner turmoil. Simon is a pro.

Bloody TV, thinks Arthur. It will rot your brain. The funeral had been the main reason for coming back to England. Well that was out of the way. So now what? He’d had a few ideas before. A trip to Littlehampton perhaps to see if he can relive some childhood memories, maybe visit his old school. Sod it.

Arthur’s eyes start to close. Just before he falls asleep he thinks he sees a figure moving around the room followed by noises from the bathroom. Can’t be a chambermaid can it? No it’s his mother’s ghost again. Come to do a bit of tidying up. Soon she’ll be tucking him in.
“Well Arthur," says the apparition, "you must admit that Mr. Wyman was very nice,”
“What?”
“Fancy him paying the bill like that. What a nice man.”

Fucking typical thinks Arthur. Forty years ago she was calling the Stones a bunch of longhaired savages. Now they’ve got classy restaurants and knighthoods she thinks they’re alright. This is the woman who wouldn’t let her son have a banjo! Who used to cram him into a Sea Cadets uniform! Is there no escape? Face it Arthur, you’re still as confused as you ever were.

Now she’s talking to someone in there! Must be another ghost. Arthur doesn’t believe in ghosts. Thai people do. Maybe living in Thailand for 20 years has addled his brain.

Cremation pt 2. Stickyfingers.

(For new readers: Arthur is in England for his mother’s funeral. Whilst having lunch with his old friend Simon in Sticky Fingers he suddenly needs a pee.)

On the way to the gents Arthur takes in more Rolling Stones memorabilia. There are photos on every wall, Stones in action, Stones in recording studios, on airplanes, hanging out with famous old blues men. There in a case is the actual bass guitar Bill Wyman used to hide behind on so many stages.

The toilet itself is immaculate. Arthur stands pissing against the tiles, slowly. Prostate playing up again. You can’t always get what you want...but if you try sometime…oh never mind. In front at eye level are more pictures of the Stones…Jagger in full strut, a debauched looking Richards, fag in mouth, wringing out down and dirty riffs. So this was Wyman’s reward for standing like a tombstone in the shadows thumping out bass lines every night. Not bad.

Back from the toilet Arthur finds Simon talking to a familiar looking figure in dark slacks and a white silk shirt. He catches the words ‘spirituality’ and ‘bollocks’. Bloody hell...it is Bill Wyman himself. He’s pulled up a spare chair and he's fiddling with a cell phone or a Blackberry whatever they call the bloody things.

“Bill,” says Simon, “This is a friend of mine. Arthur. We were at school together.”
“That’s nice, old boys reunion is it,” says Bill, “food OK?”
“Very nice thanks.” Says Arthur. “Nice restaurant.”

“Thanks,” says Bill, “It’s fairly lucrative. I can’t rely on Stones royalties to support me.”
“Arthur lives in Thailand.” Says Simon.
“That’s nice,” says Bill, “we were there. Can’t say I remember much of it. What brings you to England? Must be strange for you?”
Arthur says something about his mother’s funeral. Bill is sorry to hear that.
“Enjoy your lunch gentlemen,” says Bill and wanders off.
“Nice fellow.” Says Arthur.
“Bill’s alright.” Says Simon. “His son married his ex-wife’s mother you know.”

Arthur talks about Thailand. His life in the village. He tries to be honest but he can’t find the words. Never could. Simon for his part is wondering why he ever came to be friendly with Arthur in the first place. School of course. They were a bit different from most of the other boys in some way. Shared an interest in American Blues Music, very much a minority taste at the time. But why did I waste so much time on the bugger thinks Simon. How do we choose our friends? If we do make a conscious choice. He’s a loser. Nowhere Man. OK we were at school together but so what? We even hitchhiked to India together for God’s sake! What a waste of time that was. He’s just a drain. He just mooched around...silly bugger. No dress sense. He seems to think I have the key to some door he can’t get through. Perhaps I do but he’ll never get through it dressed like a tramp.

“And it suits you then does it? Living in Thailand. The climate and everything?” Simon asks.

Arthur wants to explain. But where to start? There was just too much of it. And bitter experience has taught Arthur that trying to explain about Thailand to someone who hasn’t lived there is not a good idea. He could stick to the safe stuff of course, food, climate, but was there any point in telling Simon about the feeling of freedom, the absence of Western hang-ups, the laissez-faire way of living? Probably not. People had seen too many TV documentaries about Thai bar girls.

Arthur decides to go with his stock answers. He could have mumbled something about wanting to ‘isolate himself from civilization’ a la Gauguin...but even that isn’t the whole truth. Self-disgust would be closer but being candid has its limits. He tries to tell Simon why he had moved to a remote Thai village. How he had hoped to lose himself, his Self, in such a place. He was tired of his own ego, fed up with sentences beginning with ‘I’, bored with desire…his own and other people’s.

“And did you?” Simon asks.
“Did I what?”
“Get your ego absorbed into the cosmos or whatever?”
“No, of course not. I’m still me.”
Pudding arrives. Hot Fudge & Pecan Nut Brownie smothered in Hot Chocolate Sauce, with Vanilla Ice Cream, £5, for Simon. Blueberry Cheesecake with fresh Blueberry Compote, £4.50, for Arthur.

“What about sex then.” Simon asks, “Are these...er...Thai girls all they’re cracked up to be?”
“In what way?”
“Well you know. Are they really as...er...submissive as we’ve been led to believe?”
“Well I wouldn’t say submissive exactly. But they’ll wash your socks.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. And clip your toenails.”
“Amazing. Hard to find that kind of service here these days.”
“You should come over,” says Arthur, “see for yourself.”
“I just might. And you could help me along? Show me the dos and don’ts?”
“Gladly. I could show you some shortcuts. If you’re going to have a mid-life crisis you might as well get it right.”
“But it’s a fantasy surely?” says Simon. Arthur chews quietly without responding. “So you’re going back to Thailand?”
“Nothing for me here.”

Arthur thinks he’d better change the subject. Does Simon still live in that mews house in Chelsea? Oh yes,” says Simon, “I own it now. Bought it in ‘77. Good thing I did too. Never would be able to afford it now.”
“What’s it worth then?”
“Not sure. Millions probably. If you can find the right Russian oligarch to buy it. Had a house in the Cotswolds too. When the kids were small.”
“Let me guess,” said Arthur, “nice little village school? No wogs?”
“Hmmm, naughty, naughty Arthur. Let’s not go there, as our American cousins would say. Oh…and we have a farmhouse in Tuscany. I say we. Samantha uses it more than I do.”
“So you did OK then.” Says Arthur, wondering what it must be like to have houses worth millions.
“Not complaining,” says Simon, “amazing really to think that it was all done with words on paper. And that it all started back in the Swinging Sixties. I certainly had no idea things would turn out this way.”
“Good for you.”
“London’s changed a lot though,” says Simon, “It would be nice to live out of town. But even there I keep thinking I’m going to look out one morning and find half the East European workforce camped out in the paddock barbecuing someone’s Shetland pony.”
“Could be Chinks,” says Arthur, “those buggers will eat anything.”
“Hmmm. We don't actually use expressions like that anymore Arthur. But you're right. England has changed. And not all for the better.”
“I noticed,” says Arthur, “are you still into politics?”
“Were all middle class now. It’s a New Labour World. The Third Way.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry about it. The music is mostly shite too,” says Simon, “just a lot of one hit wonders. And don’t get me started on St. Bono. Hmm...I’m starting to sound like you.”
“In what way?”
“Oh I don’t know...cynical.”
”Perhaps living in Thailand has made me a bit cynical.”
“You always were cynical Arthur.”
“Yes I suppose I was. These days I’m more like world-weary. I’ve become totally fatalistic I think. I don’t feel as though I’ve ever had much control over events.”
“Well none of us do really. Except in small ways. We make decisions in our lives…or we think we do…what to have for breakfast and so on but the big stuff is sort of pre-ordained I reckon.”
“God, didn’t we talk like this at school?”
“You’re right. Some things don’t change.”
“Do you still like music?” Arthur asks.
“Some of it why?”
“Sounds like rubbish to me.”
“It’s only rock and roll.” Says Simon. “Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be around this long. Look at the rich old rockers, up there with the gods to all intents and purposes, on top of the world. Now they’re just trying to come to terms with the aging process. Another thing, I can’t believe the stuff the kids are listening to. It’s downright nasty. But I guess that’s the point. I’m not supposed to like it. Been there done that. Offend your parents. The funny thing is I know exactly what’s going on. And the kids know I know. It’s weird. Almost makes me believe in karma.

“You’ve achieved a lot.” Says Arthur 
“In what way?”
“Well in your writing.”
”Call it writing? It’s not bloody writing. It’s crap. Nabokov, Burgess, Amis...that’s writing. What I do is rubbish. I’ve got a novel or two in me probably but I never got around to writing them. Have you read Houellebecq?”
“No should I?”
“Up to you. One of his books is set in Thailand. Basically he thinks humanity is at an end...or evolving into something not very nice. He’s a piss-taker too of course.”
“I’ll give it a try.” Arthur says, “Are you working on anything at the moment?”
“The Beeb puts a bit of work my way,” says Simon. “And there’s always newspaper and magazine articles. Which reminds me, we’d better be off.” Arthur reaches for the bill but Simon has already picked it up. “The Bill from the Bill,” he says.

As they walk towards the cashier Bill Wyman comes up to them again. “I’ll take that,” he says removing the bill from Simon’s hand. “Thanks for dropping by Simon. Come again.”
“I will,” says Simon, “and I’ll get you on the show one of these days too.”
“Anytime.” Says Bill.

Out on the street they both agree that was nice, let’s keep in touch, yes let’s, and similar English parting phrases. Arthur watches Simon hail a cab and decides to walk back to Victoria. This might be a good time to have him beaten up by teenage girls but he’s had a long day so let’s go easy on him.

Cremation pt 1. British Rail.

Flashback alert. Talking of funerals. I wasn’t the only expat in Thailand who went home for one. Arthur did it too. It was a cremation in his case.

Arthur watched his mother’s coffin slide slowly through a curtain into the waiting furnace and felt nothing much at all. Outside the funeral home, in the windswept car park, Arthur confronted the handful of guests. The drizzle and the dripping rhododendrons helped him hit the right tone. None of the guests had lingered for long. Arthur couldn’t blame them. There wasn’t much reason to hang around. His mother’s empty house was depressing. He’d wasted no time listing it with a local estate agent and that was that.

Which left him with a couple of days before his flight back to Thailand. What to do with the time? He dialed Simon’s number and got him first time. ‘Bloody hell Arthur!’ said Simon. ‘I thought you were dead!’ ‘Not just yet,’ said Arthur, ‘but I did just get my mother cremated.’ Simon said he was sorry to hear that. His own mother had recently passed away. Arthur said he was sorry to hear that. They agreed to meet for lunch in London the next day.

Arthur managed to buy a one-way ticket to Victoria from the machine without too much trouble. A girl wearing a hijab directed him to the right platform. But the train which slid silently into Haywards Heath Station was unlike any Southern Railways conveyance Arthur had ever seen. It was certainly not the Brighton Belle. It had Dr. Who sliding doors and an Enid Blyton colour scheme. The style known as British Modern he supposed. Once inside he looked in vain for watercolours of Penzance, pictures of strange people in bathing costumes. Gone. Gone with the string net luggage racks and the leather straps that held the windows up. But there was a digital information screen which he soon got the hang of, and he had to admit the seats were comfortable. The view wasn’t bad either. Leafless oak trees, animals standing around in sodden fields, rows of brick houses, platforms appearing on cue, Three Bridges, Gatwick, Horley, people getting on and off, even the odd handcart loaded with mailbags, Redhill, Merstham, it was all pretty much as remembered. There were no steam engines or heaps of coal. And he didn’t see any children waving. Did they still do that he wondered?

Victoria Station itself hadn’t changed much but security was tight. Arthur got through the signs and announcements, past the policemen, policewomen, police-dogs and a maze of concrete blocks and traffic cones after which it wasn’t hard to find a hotel within walking distance. Fast food was obviously popular. Every other shop seemed to be a KFC franchise. Odd really. It was as if England was trying to be like America but without the space. Or the inclination. Most people seemed happy about the changes. Others were grinning and bearing it in a Churchillian sort of way.

Arthur didn’t feel quite up to venturing underground. Pedestrians were mostly all talking into cell-phones. After a couple of false starts he found somebody who spoke reasonable English and asked the way to Kensington. He got a heart-warming 'You’re standing in it mate.' Good to see amateur comedy still alive and well. Some things never change.

Arthur found his way to the restaurant, Sticky Fingers. And there waiting outside, in tailored, slightly flared, grey flannel slacks and a Lakers jacket was Simon. Older, silver haired but still dapper and lively. So far so good.

“So this is where the in crowd eat.” said Arthur, looking round the crowded restaurant.

“Not really,” says Simon, switching seamlessly to the present tense, “these people are tourists, Yanks mostly, Stone’s fans. Bill gets to display his souvenirs. The food’s not bad and I thought you might be interested.”

They start with Grilled Portobello Mushroom & Goat's Cheese served on a Crostini with Basil Oil. £5.25.

“So how are things?” Simon asks.
“Things are fine,” says Arthur, “bit strange being back in England after so many years I must say.”

Yes, thinks Simon. I suppose you must. He watches Arthur tackling his mushroom. In his crumpled clothes, straight out of a backpack probably, he looks as though he might be happier sitting on the floor of a bamboo hut somewhere dipping into the communal rice-bowl or whatever they do in those places. Same sloppy old Arthur. Still no sense of style. Looks like he cuts his own hair by candlelight. He’s talking a mile a minute too. As if he’s just come out of solitary confinement.

Not that Simon is paying much attention anyway. He’s thinking about an article he has to finish for the Guardian some time in the next few days. Something about spirituality and pop music they said. Is there anything spiritual about pop music? Andrew Oldham seemed to think so in ‘2Stoned’. Simon wasn’t so sure but if ALO could make a case for it so could Simon. Why not? Progressive vicars will be playing U2 music in churches soon. And there’s something spiritual about everything if you think about it long enough.

Simon likes that last line so much he makes a note of it on one of Bill’s napkins. He loves the way lines like that come out of nowhere. They make perfect springboards for elaboration and clever bits of wordplay. And maybe it is time somebody took pop music seriously. To most people it’s just a bit of candy for the kiddies. But we’ve come a long way from the days of teenage girls screaming and creaming the seats. Even they were trying to get in touch with something bigger than themselves. If you think about it.

Maybe Bill would have some thoughts on the matter. Is there any point in asking Arthur, the newly returned wise man from the East? Simon thinks not. He orders the Roast Rump Of Lamb With Herb Crust, Potato gratin and basil jus. £14.45. Arthur thinks he’ll try the Sea Bass Fillet Wrapped In Banana Leaf with Sticky Rice and Thai Green Curry Sauce. £13.95. Simon orders a bottle of Spanish Rioja Crianza Vega. Savoury, spicy fruit with supple tannin, £5.75/glass £22/bottle. Arthur tries, not very hard, to convert it into Thai baht.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no. I was just checking the prices.”

“Very reasonable here.”

‘This may sound pretentious,’ Simon scribbles between bites, ‘but a really good hit record can grab you by the balls and put you in tune with the cosmos. Seriously, I don’t care what it is, ‘Mandy’ say, or ‘Good Vibrations’, ‘Imagine’, ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Dancing Queen’, you hear stuff like that under the right conditions and you know you’ve been touched by a few minutes of magic.’ Surprising really how few people can see it.

Arthur meanwhile has been droning on. Something about the Burmese border, mumble, mumble. Now he’s asking a question. About Samantha.

“Sam? She’s fine.” Says Simon. “Fine. We still live together...separately if you know what I mean. It’s an open-ended relationship. No sex.”
“How are the children?”
“Fine, fine. Barnaby is still developing property. Big deal in Dubai currently. Freya has her own clothing line now and the twins are in a band. Satan’s Anus.”
“Sorry?”
“Satan’s Anus. That’s the name of the group Giles and Barnaby are in. They have an album coming out and they just got busted for heroine so it should do well.”
Arthur says nothing so Simon continues. “Don’t look so worried Arthur. The drug bust is just a publicity stunt. My grand-children are typical teenagers really. It’s a phase they all go through these days.”
“The whole bloody world is going through a phase if you ask me,” says Arthur, “will it come out the other end is the question.”
“Yes, well, who knows? Good old Arthur. Same old pessimist I see.”
“It’s from his father’s side,” says Arthur’s mother’s ghost.
“I need a pee,” says Arthur.

Bombed out.

 

I’m piddling about while we wait for Oscar to get his treasure hunt organized.  I also have to do something about Arthur. He’s stuck in Bangkok waiting for Simon to show up and make some kind of documentary about the naughty nightlife. Should be fun.
All in good time. Meanwhile here’s something self-indulgent that I wrote about my mum.

I was in my Pattaya apartment when mum died. Can’t remember exactly what I was doing. Getting me leg over most likely.

My daughter Jane phoned. “Dad? Is that you Dad? Gran’s dead.”

Put me off my stroke that did. I packed a bag and grabbed a taxi to Don Muang. Next thing I know I’m at Heathrow still smelling of knock-off Giorgio.

Mum died in a nursing home in Eastbourne. Choked on a boiled sweet and tripped over a Chihuahua. Probably for the best. She’d had arthritis for some time and it wasn’t getting any better. She’d never really been the same since they took Dr. Collis-Browne’s off the market. She liked a few drops in her stout did mum, got the habit off of Gran I think. Buried in Highbury. Just a few of her friends showed up. And a cousin or two I hardly knew. Samantha came with a bunch of flowers but we didn’t talk.

Mum was a good ’un alright. Adolf bombed us out of three houses but I never heard her moanin’. I stood by her grave thinking about the song she loved to sing…

Sometimes when I feel low
and things look blue
I wish a boy I had... say one like you.
Someone within my heart to build a throne
Someone who'd never part, to call my own
If you were the only girl in the world
and I were the only boy
Nothing else would matter in the world today
We could go on loving in the same old way

A garden of Eden just made for two
With nothing to mar our joy
I would say such wonderful things to you
There would be such wonderful things to do
If you were the only girl in the world
and I were the only boy.

Lovely song that. It was written in 1916 by Clifford Grey and Nat D. Ayer for a hit musical from the same year, The Bing Boys Are Here. Mum would have been a starry-eyed teenage girl at the time (this is long before nosh pits). A lot of artists have recorded it over the years, including Perry Como. Here's Violet Lorraine and George Robey singing it in 1916.

Sing along if you feel like it. Don't be shy. I do it all the time.

​

Oscar's Island Pt. 5 Kawaii

This may be of interest to those readers who are like fashion.

“You’ve been to Japan right Dick?” asks Oscar one evening.
“Oh yes.” I reply
“Any idea why Japanese girls have knock knees and pigeon toes? And what’s all that school uniform stuff about?”

I admit to having been somewhat intrigued by Japanese fashions myself at one point. I’m not talking about things like sushi, Hokusai prints and cherry blossom.  It's a question most visitors to Japan ask themselves at some time or other. Oscar is certainly not the first Western male to be distracted by Japanese school girls and their mysterious ways.

“Well, as I understand it Oscar it has to do with something called kawaii. I will elaborate if you like.”
“Please do.”
“Kawaii can be loosely translated as ‘cuteness’,” I say,  “Another word for it is harajuku.  Anyway, knock knees, crooked teeth and pigeon toes seem to be all the rage in Japan among a certain subsection of the population. Research suggests that the reasons are less genetic than cultural, though there may be something called o-legs at work.  A treatable condition.”

“And do you personally find it attractive Dick?” Oscar asks.
I am reluctant to answer not wanting to risk my sensitive modern male credentials.  So I refer him to the contented traveller…..

Nor do I mention another Japanese fashion, yamamba, or hags from the mountain. It might upset him.
 

It is true however that Japanese children are introduced to cuteness at an early age.

​

Oscars Island Pt 4. The map.

Another quiet afternoon by the pool. It’s hot here and humid. So humid in fact that you can work up a sweat just getting the cap off a beer bottle. Fortunately Oscar’s staff take care of all the menial tasks.

The old blog’s getting to be a bit of a mess lately. So am I. Need to get my finger out. It’s always the bloody same when Oscar’s around. I’ll admit he’s helped me out of a few tight spots but he’s got me into new ones soon after. No trouble yet but I know it’s coming.

“Seriously Dick,” says Oscar one day, “you need to do something about your blog. If you just go rambling on like this you will lose readers. They'll wander off looking for titillation. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

He takes me off into a sort of study and shuts the door. He gets a roll of tracing paper out of a wall safe and spreads it out on a big mahogany table. It looks like some kind of rubbing. “OK.” says Oscar, “here’s the map.”

Then he starts to tell me how he was wandering around the island when he spots a sort of cave in a hillside.

“I crawl in,” says Oscar, “and it turns out to be a bat-cave.”
“Was Robin in there?” I ask.
“No Dick, he wasn’t. But thanks anyway for the smart-ass comment. Just a few bats hanging around. Noctilio leporinus according to Fabiani who knows a thing or two about bats. Incidentally Dick do you know where the name ‘bat’ comes from?”
“Yes. Want me to tell you?”
“Sure.”
“It comes from Old Norse "ledhrblaka," which means "leather flapper." It became "bakka" somehow and then "bat" in English.”
“Right. So I had a look around inside the cave and I noticed a few squiggly lines on the wall.”
“Then you went home for some tracing paper….”
“Copied the map and…”
“Don’t tell me…hidden treasure!!” There are no flies on Dick Headley.
We study the map together in silence for a while. It doesn’t look like much. A splodge that could be an island I suppose, a line that could be a track and a small X off in one corner. Could be a bit of bat shit for all I know.

But Oscar’s excited. He went looking for the spot he says and found a flat rock that didn’t look natural. It was too heavy for him to lift on his own.
“I’d like to keep this just between the two of us if possible Dick. There’s going to be some digging to do. I could get some guys over from Tortola but it would be all over the Caribbean in 5 minutes. I need your help Dick. Somebody I can trust.”
​
Sounds like a load of bollocks to me.

“I don’t quite get it Oscar.” I say, “This treasure business. You don’t need more money surely.”

Oscar thinks for a while, scratches his horrible hairy belly and says, “It’s greed Dick. Sheer greed. And the fact that I’m bored stiff. I need a bit of excitement in my life. Plus it could be just the thing to liven up your blog.”

Oscar's Island Pt. 3., Divine Comedy.

'What's with the swivel gun?' I ask one evening as we are watching the sun set over the Caribbean.
'Found it in the lagoon,' says Oscar,' thought it might come in handy.

Cleaned it up. Not sure if it works.'
'Got any gunpowder? We could take potshots at the flamingos.'
Just kidding of course. I love birds.

More harmless banter ensues. We get chatting about the old days in LA and Manila.
 
‘Whatever happened to ChuckWoww?’
 
‘Funny you should ask Oscar. I ran into him in Thailand. He was working at the US Embassy.

CIA I think. Came in my bar in Pattaya from time to time. He wrote a book called ‘Losing the Plot’.’
 
‘What about your pal Simon?’
 
‘He’s in London. Got his own TV show. Still dabbling in real estate which he finds quite lucrative.’
 
‘Who writes this stuff anyway Dick? Not ChuckWoww is it?’
 
‘Wish I knew. Whoever he/she is seems to enjoy stringing words together.

It started out as something called Brighton Line. Now it's you and me sitting here getting drunk.

I assume there’s some underlying meaning. Or perhaps it’s not for me to know and all will be

revealed at some point.’
 
Oscar appears interested so I continue.
 
‘I’m just the narrator. Which means they send me files in random order.

It’s my tone they want I think. I put my stamp on them and send them back.

Someone else can sort them out. It must have been a bit like that for William Burroughs in Tangiers.

 Pages of stuff all over the place. Nothing making sense.

The answer? Stick it all in the post and let the editor sort it out.

(That was Allen Ginsberg in Burroughs case). My editor lives in a modernized farmhouse in Tuscany.
 
From time to time I get emails from budding young narrators asking me how I do it.

How do you manage to sound so natural Dick they ask? Well there’s no trick to it really.

I just narrate like I talk. Course that doesn’t always mean I know what I’m talking about but

if I get the tone right nobody minds too much.’
  
Oscar has fallen asleep.

Oscar's Island Pt. 2. Trumped.

Next morning I find Oscar on the terrace having breakfast. Bottle of Mountgay it looks like.
 
There’s an old cannon mounted on the wall and pointing out to sea. I hadn’t noticed it last night. Looks like a 3-pounder, probably Spanish. Then I get a whiff of frangipani, ‘dama de noche’ as the Spanish call it. The smell takes my mind back to Manila when things were hopping in Ermita. I’d walk down Del Pilar every evening on the way to work and pick a blossom or two to hold under my nose.
​
It’s a beautiful view out across the lagoon towards the East dotted with small islands. Oscar picked a nice spot I must say. The hillside is bright green, the ocean is blue and there’s a splash of pink from the group of flamingos.

“See,” says Oscar,” they’re looking better already.”
“Must be the shrimp,” I said, “seems to suit them.”
Such a relaxing place. I just want to let my mind go blank. The last thing I want to do is discuss geopolitics and suddenly he starts talking about the future of western civilization.That’s Oscar, he likes a good rant to start the day.

“We’re doomed Dick,” he says. “As a species. Doomed by our own greed. Overcrowding, pollution, cholesterol, global warming, if some new disease doesn’t wipe us out we’ll blow ourselves up. Just a question of time. And if none of that happens we’ll get hit by an asteroid sooner or later just you wait.”
“Nice to see you so cheerful this morning Oscar,” I say.
“Not a question of cheerful Dick. Just being realistic. The world’s fucked. And that includes America. The days of cheap land and unlimited resources have gone. The good times are over. Now America is run by Wall Street and Rupert Murdoch. And the CIA, They are watching us from satellites as we speak. And when they’re ready they'll hand everything over to the Chinks. And they’re in cahoots with the Ay-rabs. One day, people will wake up and the world will be wall-to-wall Walmart with mullahs on every aisle reciting verses from the Koran. If we don’t all get beheaded. Obama’s a goddam muslim.”

Then he gets started on Iraq. Or Eye-rak as he calls it.
“All the fucking ragheads should be nuked,” he says. (This is the kind of thinking that separates us from the animals.)
“Aw, leave the poor sods alone,” I say, “why stir them up?”
“Leave them alone?!” he yells, “Leave them alone! What about 911? They fucking attacked us!!!”
Strewth, he’s on good form this morning. He’s starting to look genuinely pissed off.  Once he gets worked up it’s hard to stop him.

There’s no point arguing with him when he’s in this mood. Just makes him worse. A few times I’ve told him he’s full of shit and he starts screaming and shouting I don’t know anything etc. etc. Don’t get me wrong. I like the bloke. We’ve had some good laughs over the years but lately he’s got awful touchy. Where does all the anger come from? He's filthy rich, owns a beautiful island. Why take it out on me? I pass the Mountgay and he calms down a bit.

“The fucking planet is overpopulated.” He says, “What we need is a good cull. Maybe some kind of epidemic. And don’t get me started on Vladimir fucking Putin.”
​
I’ve got no problem with Vlad to be honest but I keep my thoughts to myself.  Can’t post stuff like that on the blog. People will call me a Putin-lover. So I try to change the subject. I bring up my problems with the blog. I tell Oscar how it needs some kind of theme or story line and he says,
“Why not just have a good rant? It’s your blog you can say what you want. What’s the blog thing about then?” So I tell him about how I started posting on the internet. Just for something to do like.
“Ever thought about publishing it?” Oscar asks.
“Don’t be daft. Who would publish it?”
“Oh, I know people in New York,” says Oscar. “Of course it would need some work. Where are you going with it exactly? You don’t have a coherent plot and the characters need fleshing out. Fancy yourself as a writer do you Dick?”
“I’m not. That’s the trouble. I get in a real mess with the dialogue sometimes. Especially when I’m pissed.”
“I’ll get another bottle.” Says Oscar.
 Bastard. No respect for the fiction process.

Oscar's Island.

Well we finally got over to Oscar’s island. I’ve been feeling a little down since Nyum left* so I’m hoping Oscar can cheer me up. I thought I’d surprise him. Regular readers will remember Oscar de Borcceri. I met him in California. He got me into the porn business.  Made a few million on that we did so I suppose I should be grateful. We’ve kept in touch over the years so I know he’s done well for himself. The porn industry has changed a lot of course but he got a few other things on the go. Keeps his fingers in lots of different pies does Oscar. He was buying and selling domain games for a while then he started an anti-virus company and dabbled in real estate. First thing I notice about Oscar’s island is a kind of lagoon with a wooden walkway across it ending in a jetty. Next thing I notice is Oscar himself standing on the jetty in his birthday suit. He’s excited to see us I can tell. “Welcome, welcome,” he says giving Ning and Nong a good flash of his coat of arms. Plonker rampant on a field of greying pubic hair. The girls put their hands up to their mouths in Thai girl embarrassment. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen one. “Dick! I’ll be buggered. What brings you to the Caribbean?” “The wind Oscar. What do you think? It blows me around.” Same old Oscar. Horrible as ever. The question then arises does Oscar look horrible because he is horrible or is he horrible because he looks like a lascivious toad? Or is it just me that sees him that way. Girls like him. Maybe they see an amusing old goat with money to burn. Anyway there he is. In the flesh. As we walk along the boardwalk Oscar points out his flamingos. There are 5 of them and tell the truth they look a bit scruffy. Feathers missing here and there and they aren’t really pink either. More sort of orangey brown. “Phoenicopterus ruber “ says Oscar in italics. “Only five?” “Ah,” says Oscar, “this is just a start. I’ve only had them a few weeks. Now the trick is to get them breeding. I’m doing something about the colour too. Diet is important. I need to get them some shrimp.” “Good idea Oscar,” says I, “would that be any particular kind of shrimp you’re using?” “Brine shrimp Dick. I’m getting it flown in from Venezuela. You aren’t taking the piss are you?” “Course not. What’s special about the Venezuelan shrimp?” “Carotene Dick. And canthaxanthin. In the wild they normally get it from crustaceans and algae but if you want your flamingos a real bright pink get the shrimp.” “I’ll remember that Oscar.” There’s a narrow zigzag road up to his house and Oscar has laid on some golf carts for guests. Very nice views everywhere you look. The house reminds me a bit of his Malibu place, but more open and airy. There’s two young ladies waiting outside where we park the golf carts. “Come in, come in,” says Oscar, “oh, let me introduce my two assistants. Fantasia and Fabiani,. They are from Brazil Dick.” Well I could see that. Typical, sleek, wavy black-hair, with blonde streaks, chocolate skinned Copacabana numbers flashing their teeth and wearing bits of coloured string. Up the ‘Help Disco’ end of Avenida Atlantica was my guess. Could be Ipanema I suppose at a pinch. “Leblon.” Says Oscar. “Close.” “They are a bit shy with strangers,” Oscar explained, “that’s why they got dressed up.” “Are they good with flamingos Oscar?” I ask. “Oh very good indeed Dick. Glad you asked,” says Oscar scratching his bulging gut, “Fantasia has a degree in ornithology and Fabiani is a leading authority on brine shrimp. If there’s anything you need to know just ask them. Lovely aren’t they?” Lovely? Well I suppose they are. They have lovely smiles. How long before he offers me a swap. Two Thais for one Brazilian. To be honest I’m in the mind to just give Ning and Nong to him for nothing. They are getting on my nerves or perhaps I just don’t want to deal with women anymore. Does that make me a misogynist? This might be a good time as any to mention how I met Oscar. Late sixties it was. I’d gone to California with a girlfriend of Sam’s who will remain nameless. She wanted to go to San Francisco, where the flowers grow, so very high. Well brought up girl she was but bloody clueless. Lucky for her I went with her or she would probably have ended up on the Spahn Movie Ranch with Charlie Manson. Anyway we were having a stroll through Haight Ashbury (lots of sunny people walking hand in hand) and somebody told us about a free concert that was supposed to be happening in Golden Gate Park. Which is how come we found ourselves at the Altamont Speedway one hot dusty night in 1969. I had a bad feeling about it from the beginning. Just getting out there was a nightmare. Hippies with sleeping bags all whacked out on every drug you can think of stumbling through the gloom. The vibes were not good. I’d been to a few of these dos with Sam before so I knew what to expect. Usually she’d be off interviewing stars and I’d be sitting backstage on big black boxes smoking joints with roadies. That’s how it was at Altamont. Behind all the lights and the amps was all the hustlers, drug dealers, promoters, musicians the usual freak show except for one bloke in a Paisley velvet suit, shades, beard, beads, big hair who was passing out sugar cubes. He seemed to take a shine to me. Had I been at Woodstock? He asked. Did I like Santana? What’s happening in London these days? I’m Oscar by the way. “Dick.” “Nice outfit Dick. King’s Road?” “Yes. Granny Takes A Trip.” “Thought so.” Hallo I’m thinking. What have we got here? Jumping Jack Flash is it? Suddenly we both noticed something was going on in front of the stage. “Stay here and look after this,” said Oscar, sticking a joint in my hand. Then he was pushing his way through to the front where things were starting to get weird. Everything was happening in slow motion, people were screaming and it was hard to make out what was going on. I vaguely remember seeing Hell’s Angels bashing people…with pool cues it looked like. Beer cans were flying around like fucking cannon-balls. Oscar came back and said, “I think the party’s over. I've got a helicopter round here somewhere. Want a ride into town?” Well that was then. Now here we sit on his terrace drinking rum and watching the sun set over the Caribbean. He’s already explained the sleeping arrangements. I’ve picked out a nice bungalow . “Right Dick. Time for some kip as you Limeys like to say.” Then he finds a coin somewhere. “The girls should get to know each other don’t you think? Your call. Winner gets first pick.” Oscar wins and takes Ning and Fabiani off for a bit of cross-cultural interchange. Me and Nong and Fantasia wander off to the main guest cottage. I won’t bore anyone with the details. *Nyum went to New York and didn’t come back. I heard later she got a job with Madonna.

More novel ideas.

Arthur has changed bars!! By some miracle he was able to negotiate the traffic on Soi 4 and we now find him entering the Morning Night. He’s aiming for a seat overlooking the street. Similar to his previous location but looking the other way. As good a place as any to contemplate the state of the world.


He spots what he’s looking for on Soi 4. A nice seat overlooking the street and he decides to go for it. Even though it means squeezing past a group of bulky soccer types.

“Orroit mite?” says one of them as Arthur slithers past.

“Fine thanks,” says Arthur avoiding eye contact. “This will do fine.” They seem pleasant enough but you can’t be too careful in Bangkok these days.

He gets himself settled and a waitress appears. Rather a cute one actually. “What you want dlink?” she asks. 

“Beer Sing kap.” Says Arthur giving her his most paternal smile.

She soon comes back with a Singha beer and some peanuts. She stands looking at him for a while. He can’t remember seeing her before…small, nice proportions, tits just right. Hmmm. Definitely fuckable thinks Arthur. The soccer types have noticed her too. Sometimes you have to make a snap decision with these things.

But there are times when Arthur just can’t be bothered going through the whole process. With Duan it was different. Just watching her brush her hair was an event. Mind you this little waitress certainly has her charms. She keeps rubbing one of her charms against Arthur’s elbow and he feels a familiar twitch coming from the little head. Mr. Happy is getting ideas. “Here we go again.” Says Arthur’s mother’s ghost.

“Oh shut up.” Says Arthur.

“What you say?” asks the waitress. “You want me go way?”

“No, no.” says Arthur. “It’s just my mother’s ghost. She’s becoming a running joke.”

“No understan’ falang.” Says the waitress.

 She is definitely cute and cuddly. Arthur decides to go for it. Why not? It’s only money and it will pass the afternoon away nicely. Whatever happens is always interesting in its own way. He is just about to start negotiations with the waitress when out of nowhere comes a random thought.

One of these days, thinks Arthur, I’ll write all this stuff down. I’ll shut myself away somewhere with no distractions and apply myself vigorously to writing a complete account of myself. Why? Well not for posterity. Posterity doesn’t give a toss. For my own amusement. To see if I can stay the course. But will anybody want to read it? Probably not. People want meaning. They don’t want to read about some old fart wandering aimlessly around Bangkok. 

Arthur has lots of ideas for unpublishable books. It could be one of those books where nothing much happens for instance. Something along the lines of ‘Dubliners’, or ‘Notes from Underground’, or ‘Catcher in the Rye’. Some bloke just droning on about his life and sharing his deepest thoughts with anyone who’s interested. That might work. There’s enough bored people around these days, surfing the internet, They’ll read anything. 

It certainly won’t be one of those post-modern books where all the characters are versions of themselves. Arthur has read enough of those. It might jump around in time and space a bit but the story will be fairly straightforward.

Should he try to appeal to younger readers? Those who missed out on the Sixties and Seventies for instance but aren’t too bitter about it.

Arthur imagines himself with a laptop somewhere…typing words in, moving blocks of text around. It would be a lot of work. And pretty futile when you think about it. Why would anyone commit himself to something like that? More to the point why would anyone want to read it? They’ll probably just skim through it looking for the sexy bits.

 OK thinks Arthur. Enough procrastination. I’ll start right now. No time like the present. Strike while the clichés are hot. He finds an old envelope in his fanny pack and borrows the waitress’ pen. He writes…

I have finally decided to write something. But what? 

“What you write?” asks the waitress.

“Oh nothing.” Says Arthur. Playfully shielding his piece of paper. 

Why write anything? Did James Joyce ask himself why when he was working on ‘Ulysses’? Course not. He had a head full of ideas that just kept coming. Or did he get days when he just said ‘Fuck it! Nobody wants to wade through this tripe. Why do I bother?  Perhaps I should have stuck to journalism. Or perhaps I should go back to university and study something useful. Gynaecology for instance. Stop all this writing nonsense and take swab samples.’

“Falang think too mutt.” Says the waitress.

“Yes, yes,” says Arthur, “I know we do. We can’t stop. It’s a disease.”

“Hab AIDS!?!” says the waitress backing off in alarm.

“Yes…er I mean no,” says Arthur forgetting whatever it was he was writing about. His train of thought has come off the tracks. Where did the good intentions go? And where did that waitress wander off to?

“Gone to get a new pen probably,” says Arthur’s mother’s ghost semi-seriously. “A nice new clean one.”

Thank you mother, thinks Arthur, for giving me my first case of writer’s block.

“You orroit mite?” a voice asks. Not his mother’s ghost this time. It’s one of the soccer fellows. The one in the Union Jack shorts. Arthur knows the type. First time in Bangkok and shagging themselves silly probably. Pussy galore. Like kids in a sweetshop they are.

“Fine. Fine. Thank you.” Says Arthur, “how about yourself?”

“Fucking brilliant mite. Come ‘ere wiv me mites like. We come every year. I’m Kev.”


“Good for you,” says Arthur, “Do you read much….er….Kev?”

“Wot books like?”

“Yes.”

“Well I just finished ‘Don Quixote’,” says Kev. “In Spanish. I’m thinking of reading War and Peace now I’ve got a chance like. Bugger ’arry bleedin’ Potter.”

“I see,” says Arthur. Strange that. Kev hadn’t looked like the literary type. Just goes to show how wrong you can be about people thinks Arthur. He makes a mental note to himself …stop judging people.

“Where’s yer mite?” Kev asks.

“My mite?”

“The little bit of Thai crumpet wot you woz wiv.”

Arthur starts to explain about having had second thoughts about having the waitress for lunch. He tells Kev he got sidetracked into a discussion with himself about James Joyce.

“Ulysses?” asks Kev.

“Well Dubliners actually.”

 “You like a bit of the old internal monologue do you…er…”

“Arthur.”

“You like a bit of the old internal monologue do you Arfur?”

“That seems to be my genre of choice yes.” Says Arthur. “In as much as we have a choice in these matters.”

“Ah yes,” says Kev, “the old free choice. Now there’s a topic. Me and my mites had a go at that one on the plane over. See Gav over there?” Arthur assumes Gav to be the bald one with tattoos from ear to ankle. “Gav the Chav we call ’im. ’Ee’s something of a determinist.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And don’t get me started on reality. What is reality when you get right down to it,” asks Kev, “you tell me.”

“Reality was a waitress for a while,” muses Arthur. “I’m not sure I have a reality really. Not in the real solid tangible sense anyway.”

“I know wot you mean,” says Kev, “Existensialism can get lonely. That’s why I stick wiv me mites.”

“You’re a lucky man.” Says Arthur. He means Kev is lucky to have mites…mates. Arthur himself has always been rather solitary by nature. He isn’t sure why. Something to do with early toilet training perhaps.

Sometimes Arthur feels as if he has spent his entire life outside a house banging on the window trying to get in. People would sometimes notice him at the window but nobody ever responded. Usually they would just get up and move to another room. Is this what Baudelaire meant by Le Gouffre? “Let’s not go there Arthur dear,’ says his mother’s ghost, “you’re just feeling sorry for yourself again.”

Perhaps. But when you’re drowning in a sea of self-pity the natural tendency is to find objects to cling to. Solid objects preferably but how is one to measure solidity? Are ideas solid? What about philosophies and beliefs? Are they good things to cling to?

“’Ere she is Arfur,” says Kev, “Your mite. Miss Thailand.”

The little waitress has reappeared. She wants to know if Arthur will be ordering another beer Sing? Arthur thinks not. “OK bye bye,” says the waitress, “See you tomorrow.” Bit saucy that thinks Arthur. See you tomorrow? Is it a question? Or just one of those things they say? Then as an afterthought she says, “I like samok bik cigar.” 

“Wot you waiting for Arfur mite?” asks Kev, “I’d go for ’er meself but I’ve already got 3 birds in me room.”

He draws the waitress closer and whispers “Short time?” in her ear. She smiles and says “Sawng pan”. Two thousand baht. Arthur says OK. The waitress goes to change. 

“Bit of orroit that, no going back to fat slappers after that, right Arfur?” says Kev, no lightweight himself. “Give ’er one for me mite.” 

The girl comes back and Arthur starts to leave…then remembers his bill. He reaches for the bamboo cup but Kev’s hand gets there first.

“That’s orroit Arfur mite,” says Kev, “’ave this one on me.”