Home economics 1 (fried fish), Slum economics 1 (brown stuff)

As I write, Chef Maiyuu is frying up a fish.

We bought two fried fish similar to the one he's working at a market the other day. He complained at the time about the expense: B80 apiece.

The fresh one he's preparing in the kitchen cost just B70 - just B10 less.

Figure in the time it is taking him to make it – the cost of his labour, if you like – and the price looks the same. Is it really worthwhile to make food at home, rather than buying it ready-made off the street?

But then, Maiyuu would argue, his fish  dish- I watched as he cut off its fins, and struggled with a large knife to lop off its head – is made with love. And how do you put a price on that?

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Before heading to work last night I dropped into my favourite laab moo (spicy pork salad) stand in the slum, and ordered a dish of the stuff.

In the past, I would have dropped in to Ball’s place first, and parted with B120 for the privilege of spending perhaps 15min in his company.

He would buy a half bottle of the brown stuff, and we would sit down for a brief drink before I headed for work.

I have stopped that, as I am tired of having to part with the money.

These days, I devote my time to rekindling my long moribund relationship with Maiyuu. It is a rewarding task, as he enjoys the attention, and our lives are happier as a result. When I want a break, I head for the condo swimming pool, which has recently reopened after months of refurbishment.

Soaking my bones in a lonely pool - almost no one frequents the place - is not the same as visiting Ball’s busy slum home, which is home to more than 10 people.

There, I can play with the kids, stroke the cat, chat to Ball’s Mum, and see Mr Ball.

Drinking was our shared pastime.

However, Mr Ball liked doing it rather too much for my liking. I paid for his self-indulgent habit, because his mother refused to say no.

Last night as I ordered my laab moo I fancied I could see the remote and distant figure of Mr Ball, about 50m down the way. He was parked outside a small shop from where we used to buy our supplies.

Now that I no longer call in, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so rattles about in the slum.

He looked in my direction for a moment - then stood up and walked away. I watched as his small, white-clad figure disappeared into the distance.

It is the second time he has caught me at the laab moo shop in early evening without having dropped in to his place first.

Tonight I have no work, and would like to pay a visit to his bustling slum home.

He will want to know what has happened to me. Once, I would have prepared my lines, so we could both save face and make a new start.

It is the Thai way to carry on as if nothing has happened, even when it has.

I want to tell him to get on with his life, have some self-respect, and stop asking me for money.

These are things which really should be said. But I wonder if the words will come.