Growing old together

A couple of readers have asked why Thai boyfriend Maiyuu and I sleep in separate beds. Because we are both crabby old men!

Actually, he would dispute the fact that he is getting irritable in his old age. But my increasing crotchetiness as I get older is the favourite topic of conversation when we are together.

Last night, despairing of anything decent to watch on television, I turned on the radio. The first station I chose plays 'easy listening' music - sappy, bland stuff, the kind which plays in aircraft, to pacify passengers before the plane takes off.

'Are you trying to kill me slowly?' asked Maiyuu, he prefers his music to sound more lively.

'Soon, I won't be able to stand it any longer. I shall have to send you to an old person's home.'

At 1am, a show started on TV which he wanted to watch, so he turned the TV back on.

'I am going to bed,' I announced.

'Of course - old men go to bed in early evening, and wake in time for the bird call,' he said.

Speaking of birds, the chickens who live along the railway line below still cause me grief. As I write, I have turned up music on the computer so I can't hear them squawking.

When I get desperate, I stand on the small veranda outside my room and curse the birds and their ignorant owner.

Yesterday, the sound of a woman screaming started mixing with the chicken noise. I walked out on to the veranda to take a look at the chicken hutch from hell.

The bare-chested owner, a small mean-looking man in his 40s, was in there with his beloved birds, watching a portable television. Honestly, he spends more time in there with them than he does with his wife.

He was watching the protest group People's Alliance for Democracy, who spend their days hectoring the government from the site of their illegal occupation at Government House. A woman was on the stage, screaming abuse.

Get in line, dear. Here on the rustic Thon Buri side of Bangkok, we have more pressing problems to consider - like bothersome chicken noise, which rises and is magnified in what seems like a tunnel effect, all nine floors to my place.

Maiyuu does not approve of my anti-chicken antics. 'Spare some thought for the tenants below who have to listen to you bellowing,' he says.

My boyfriend ribs me mercilessly. 'Try feeling ashamed for the neighbours (น่าจะอายเค้าบ้าง) - think of how they must feel when they hear you carrying on.'

Maiyuu says he has told his Thai friends about how I like bellowing at the chickens. One of his woman friends, Mai, is even closer to their dirty, overcrowded hutch than I am.

'Doesn't Mai mind the noise?' I asked.

'She doesn't pay any attention,' he said. 'Mai and the others laughed when I told them. They asked: ''Do the chickens pay attention?''

'I told them: ''Are you crazy? They are just chickens!'' said Maiyuu.

I wait outside my condo for a bus to work, where another scruffy, skinny-looking chicken lives in an upturned rattan basket. Occasionally the owner lets it out.

It struts about, bobbing its head, eyeing me with its beady chicken eyes. I would like to throttle the bird by its spindly neck, but I am too afraid to touch the thing, in case I catch some awful chicken disease.

I understand the need for chickens to get out and mingle ocasionally, but this is too much. If a chicken walked up to you while you were waiting for a bus in the West, or even in civilised parts of the East, how would you feel?

So, to go back to the original question: why do we not share the same bed?

Because we sleep better in our own beds. We slept together in the early days of our relationship, when we lived in a single room with just the one bed.

Bangkok is too hot for cuddly stuff between the sheets. Besides, Maiyuu reckons I leave old-man's slobber on the pillow.