Mr Friendly at the 7-11 (2, final)

Mr Friendly at the 7-11 and I have now broken the ice. We now chat freely about anything - or as freely as we can, with customers entering the 7-11, and me standing in front of the busy counter.

Yesterday when I paid a visit, Mr Friendly, whose name is 'T', reached for the cigarettes. I stopped him, as I had come in for something else.

'Today I would like a card to top up my phone,' I said.

No sooner had I told him what I wanted than his questions began.

'Do you live in that condo just around the corner?' he asked.

T was standing behind the counter next to a young woman, who listened to our conversation.

The staff at this 7-11 are a chatty bunch. Often when I walk in, T is having animated conversations with them.

'I do. Where do you live?' I asked. I thought one personal question deserved another.

'I live in the soi [small street] just around the corner. I left school in the sixth form and am working here for a year to save money. I want to study local government at a university in Bangkok next year,' he said.

'Why don't you ask your parents to support you?' I asked.

'I have three brothers and sisters, all younger. I can't ask them to support me when the others are still studying,' he said.

T, who has pale skin, bright red lips, and a wide smile, is from Chiang Mai. 'I am a northern boy,' he said proudly.

T is attentive to customers, anticipating their wants and needs. He is good at talking to the children who enter the shop. In fact, he is so bubbly that I suspect he is good at chatting to everyone.

'What is your name?' I asked.

He crossed one finger over another to make a 'T' sign.

'T'.

I told him my name in return.

'Why did you come to Bangkok, and how did you end up working here?' I asked him.

'I came with a group of friends. I didn't think I would stay. They have all gone back now. But I want to carry on studying.

'In Bangkok, apart from the staff at the 7-11, I have no friends, no relatives, nobody,' he said.

For a Thai, being alone in a strange city is a big deal. Mr T feels lonely, and talks to people to get over it.

'Do you go out much?' I asked.

'I hardly go out. Most of the time I sit outside the 7-11, talking to the motorcycle-taxi guys, or I play games at the internet shop across the road.

'Apart from that, I like to sleep, as I get tired legs standing in the shop all day,' he said.

I said a hurried goodbye, and left the shop.

You can have too much of a good thing. I don't want T thinking I am being nosy, or to get another attack of the jitters which presumably kept him from chatting to me long before now.

I am twice T's age, and work the wrong hours. When I am free during the day, he is working, and vice-versa. Still, I am sure we will talk again. One day I will ask him to talk to me in the northern dialect.

I knew a young hairdresser once who came from the North. He was gay, and like T, used to miss home. When he called his sister, I liked to listen to him talking in northern dialect, which has an even prettier sing-song lilt than central Thai.

I am not sure if northern boy T stays with anyone, or lives alone. For his sake, I hope he has friends at his place. They could help keep his loneliness at bay, and the misery of a solitary existence far from his home out of his mind.

Mr Friendly at the 7-11 (1)

A young Thai man in the local 7-11 serves me almost every day, when I order cigarettes.

I buy them not for myself, but for the boyfriend.

Sometimes young women serve me. The staff know what kind of cigarettes I buy, so I do not need to mention them by name any more.

'The cool ones,' said the young man yesterday, meaning a menthol brand.

'They are not for me,' I added. I don't want people thinking I smoke when I do not.

A brief conversation followed.

'Do you smoke?' I asked.

He looked embarrassed, as I was asking him a personal question, but quickly recovered his poise.

'No - I am too scared of what could happen!' he said animatedly, pointing to the pictures published on cigarette packets, of various smoking-related cancers.

I don't know the young man's name, but he lives in the area. On his days off, I see him walking about with a young woman.

He has a broad Esan-style face, but pale complexion and bright pink lips, which makes me think he might have Bangkok blood in him after all.

While easily excited (hormones, I suspect), my young 7-11 friend is gripped by bouts of shyness, so I keep a respectful distance.

Today I returned to the 7-11.

'That's a packet a day!' he exclaimed.

'Yes...too much,' I said.

He plucked up the courage to ask me about my life.

'Where are you from?' he asked.

'How long have you lived here?'

'Who asks you to buy the cigarettes?'

I dodged the last question. Just as I don't want people thinking I smoke, I am not keen on them knowing I have a boyfriend either.

The girls know who sends me on these trips to the 7-11. Boyfriend Maiyuu visits the same branch, and orders the same brand of cigarettes for himself when I am not around to buy them for him.

They must have figured out that we live together. Girls just know these things.

I suspect the young man knows I like men too, but I don't care. We can play a cat and mouse game of pretending to chase each other. Some Thai guys like to be admired, even when they are straight.

Next time, I might have to ask him his name. He has started asking me about my life, so why not?

now, see part 2

Tae: Proud activist

'Tae' Sattawat (เต๊ะ-ศตวรรษ เศรษฐกร), taking part in a rally by the anti-government protest group, People's Alliance for Democracy.

Tae has given a lengthy interview to the Manager newspaper, which is owned by a PAD co-founder.

Tae, who divides his time between acting in Thailand and Taiwan, says he has been a fan of PAD for two years.

Initially, he thought politics was not for him: it all seemed too remote from his everyday life.

Then people started doing bad things to the country, and he realised there was actually something in politics, even for the 'teenage generation'.

Teenage? Surely you are not talking about yourself, Tae. Judging by these pictures of you wearing your protest headband, your youth is long behind you. Let's hope you brush up better when you go back to Taiwan, where you can't join PAD protests - just read about them longingly on the net.

These days, he is proud to be counted among PAD supporters. 'I don't mind telling you that that at my first rally at Chon Buri the other day, it poured with rain. I did not do military training, and I have not been a soldier...even today, I still feel ill.'

Tae says he is just another member of the public when he joins PAD rallies. As an actor he can help raise Thailand's profile abroad, but believes he can still do more. Nothing is as important as coming out to defend and protect the nation, which soldiers do every day - and which, as a PAD protester, he can do, too.

The Manager says tears welled in Tae's eyes as he talked about his love for King and country. He would be prepared to die for the King, he said, and he can't understand Thais who would show disrepect for the monarch by refusing to stand when the anthem is played in cinemas.

'I would like to meet them. I don't want to do them harm, I just want to ask: Are you Thai? Were you raised on Thai soil? If so, how can you not love our father?

But Tae adds: 'If someone spoke ill of the King, and I went over and hurt that person, would I be doing wrong?

'I am not some bad guy, but it's like someone has just done harm to our father.'

Many Manager readers praise Tae for his views. No surprise there, as many will be PAD supporters themselves. However, one strikes a different note.

'I saw you in the audience at Academy Fantasia concerts. AF is over now, so maybe you are craving attention. Are you sure you are not turning up at PAD rallies just to get more publicity?'

I doubt it. Tae sounds way too intense for that. Does he get enough attention from his parents? He sounds in need of a father's shoulder to cry on.

The polite farang

I bought a bunch of red roses for the shopkeeper who lent me B50 on the night before pay day, when my money had run out. I shall call her Jay.

I bought them from a shophouse nearby.

I buy roses there every couple of days, to decorate our condo.

A young woman serves me. She spends her days making flower garlands which Thais drape over pictures of Lord Buddha, or anyone else who they hope can bring them good luck.

'The red ones look nice ... please give me a dozen,' I said.

Back at home, I put the roses in water. Later in the afternoon, once I knew Jay's stall would be open, I took them down to the market.

Jay runs a food stall with her husband. Every night they make three orders for me, which they pack in white styrofoam cartons. We pay them twice a month, when my pay comes out.

She looked concerned to see me approach, as if something was wrong. Normally I only see her at night.

'Thank you for your offer to help last night. I have bought some flowers to say thanks,' I said.

Jay, who wears a motherly apron and always looks busy, was shocked.

'Why did you do that? You are a regular customer. It is us who should be grateful,' she said, looking embarrassed.

For a Thai, accepting unexpected gifts can be awkward. It threatens to upset the natural balance of things.

Jay is self-effacing. If I give her something, she doesn't know what to do. I have just put her in a debt of thanks.

Foreigners are more direct. If we want to show our gratitude, we just express it, often by buying small gifts.

I thought I'd better say something, to minimise the significance of the gesture.

'It's okay. Farang like to buy gifts to say thanks. It's a funny custom,' I said.

Jay looked relieved.

'They look beautiful,' she said.

'Tonight, you would like three boxes as usual?' Jay asked, putting our conversation back on a safe, business-like footing.

My friend need not feel too humble to accept gifts from this farang, as we are usually tardy about paying our bill.

Yesterday, I asked boyfriend Maiyuu if he had paid the bill at her shop.

'That's my duty...you don't need to interfere,' he said, annoyed.

Translation: No. I forgot.

I urged him to pay before he went to work.

Quiet moment in Bangkok

Klong Toey market

I was heading down a narrow street into the Klong Toey fresh market when a familiar radio broadcast came on over a loudspeaker.

We were in the centre of Bangkok...but the same thing happens in villages and public places nationwide, twice a day.

The national anthem is broadcast on radio and television at 8am and 6pm. In villages, headmen play the tune over the loudspeaker so everyone can hear it.

My destination was a small outreach medical clinic run by Chulalongkorn Hospital, in the heart of the market in a poor part of town.

Twenty people were walking ahead of me. Any of them could be heading for the clinic. Last time I had to wait 20 minutes for the queue of patients to clear.

Ten seconds later, the advertisements stopped, and the national anthem started. People in front stopped walking. A man on a motorcycle turned off his bike.

It would be an exaggeration to say that life froze, as Bangkok is too hectic. But it did slow, as we paid our respects to King and country.

The Thais around me looked at the farang. I looked at them.

I like the national anthem, but I enjoy the King's anthem much more. In cinemas, it is accompanied by moving pictures of the King's life. The clip plays before the main feature. Whenever I watch it, I get teary.

The boyfriend knows this, and steals a look at me as the song ends. I do not disappoint. My cheeks are wet every time.

Half a minute later, the radio broadcast, as relayed through those scratchy loudspeakers, ends.

Activity on the street speeds up again, as if someone had taken his finger off an old vinyl record. The pace of life picks up.

Another 20m to go. People around me cleave into smaller groups.

Half a dozen appear to be heading for the clinic, but no. At the last moment, they dive off somewhere else.

Two people make it to the clinic's sliding glass doors ahead of me, but the waiting room is almost empty.

Inside the entrance, I talk to two staff behind a small counter, then take a seat. The clinic is so small, I can hear what the doctor is saying to the patient in her room.

Five minutes later, my name is called.

'I have come for more sleeping pills,' I said. 'I do not use them much, and take only half a tablet a day.'

I thought this good news would impress the doctor, who I had not seen before.

At hospitals and clinics in Bangkok, I have rarely seen the same doctor twice.

'Well then, we should keep you on half a tablet,' she said.

I left her office, and took a seat in the waiting room before staff called me to the counter.

They had divided the sleeping pills into halves, which is fine, but cut the number of pills normally prescribed.

I can see now I should have lied, and told her the problem was getting worse.

'How many pills are here?' I asked. The small, clear plastic bag in which they dispense these things looked suspiciously light.

'Ten.'

'And last time, how many did you give me?'

'Fifteen.'

'Why has the doctor given me less?'

'Maybe so you come back more often,' she said honestly.