I'm just full of bad ideas

Returning to Mum's shop in Thon Buri may not be as simple as I first thought. As loyal reader Neil reminded me in comments yesterday, Mum refused to serve me the last time I was there, after I started visiting a rival place nearby.

'Finish!' she said abruptly, meaning she was no longer prepared to serve. I explained to her why I was visiting the rival place: to see if the owner would like to sell my boyfriend's baking.

She softened, and claimed she was merely joking.

'I'll be back soon,' I said.

That turned out to be untrue. Soon after, I moved to a new condo in town, which is a long way from her shop. I have not been back since.

The new condo is in the centre of town, where I am finding it hard to meet Thais. At my new condo, the only one I get to talk to regularly is my boyfriend, which is not the same.

In a post yesterday, I promised to pay another visit to Mum's shop, to see if any of my old friends were there. 

A reader who calls himself Anonymous left this caustic response:

'You've crossed the river and gone to great lengths and expense, selling your furniture and paying more rent, so that you can... live near a tourist ghetto and return to the place you used to live to be able to socialise?'

I agree, it looks sad. Before going, I would have to test the waters by sending feisty Mum a sweet text message. It would look like this:

'Sorry we haven't spoken in a while, but I have now moved to a new place. However, I still miss you and your customers. It might be time for a return visit!

Thais love that sweet talk, and Mum is no exception.

But can I be bothered? Last night I visited an eatery close to work, which was so basic it reminded me of Mum's run-down, hole-in-the-wall shop.

A middle-aged woman sat in a tiny kitchen.

'What do you want?' she asked.

She looked barely interested, as if it was all too much effort.

Four young guys in work gear were singing along to Thai songs on a jukebox.

At least six empty bottles of beer sat on their table. They appeared to know three or four guys at the next table, who were also drinking.

As I sat waiting for my order, I stole envious looks at the men at both tables. I like drinking in roughish places with real men, I thought, and I haven't done it in a long time.

At Mum's shop, I drank mainly with straight guys. We had good times, and I am sorry they had to end. But her customers moved elsewhere.

Mum also let her shop get run down. Once, the place bustled with students and young professionals. Years before, it even attracted farang customers, mainly teachers.

By the time I left, she had lost almost everyone. Few patrons bothered to visit any more. The soul of the place had vanished.

I still resent Mum for driving away her customers, many of whom I regarded as friends, though I have never told her.

In sensible moments, I realise that the Thais I met there were mere drinking partners, little more.

If they had been genuine friends, we could have met anywhere...but we never did.

None of us could be bothered, as we weren't that close.

If Mum's shop seemed special nonetheless, it's because she was a warm and caring host. She was the one who kept us together.

So, as I contemplate the solitude of my new place in town, a return visit to her shop seems inviting, though I might end up sitting alone all night.