A foreigner friend went for a drink, but was dismayed to find that at his local, staff had stopped serving. It was the night before the Bangkok governor's election, so alcohol sales were forbidden.
He called me in a state. 'I wanted to watch the football, but I can't get in the mood if there's no drink!' farang C complained.
An hour later, he returned to his condo, which has its own mini-mart. Staff at the condo know him well, and tease farang C about his drinking habits.
'Heineken - or whisky?' they ask.
This gets on his nerves. Farang C knows the Thais are just having fun, but he thinks what he drinks should be a private affair.
An hour later, I received a text message. 'I am at the mini-mart - all is forgiven.'
Staff decided to flout the law, and sell him alcohol anyway, as he is a regular.
This morning I discovered that I, too, had failed to prepare for the governor's election. My own alcohol supplies had run out.
I visited a shophouse next the railway line, where I normally buy my Sang Som (Thai rum).
The owner, a woman in her 50s, lives there with her daughter and three children. I call her aunty, as do all her customers.
She had half-opened her slide door to let in the morning sun, but was probably not yet open for business.
I held up one finger and mouthed the word for alcohol. Aunty knew what I meant.
She disappeared behind a concealed part of the shop for 10 minutes.
Why so long? I wondered.
When she returned, Aunty presented me with a squarish parcel in a plastic bag.
She had wrapped my bottle of whisky in pink wrapping paper, to disguise it from curious passers-by, or - fearsome word - 'authorities' who might be on the lookout for people buying alcohol on the sly.
'I am not allowed to sell alcohol today, as it's the election. However, as I know you, it's okay,' she said.
'This parcel looks so pretty it is almost too good to open,' I replied, thanking her. It is sold in a box. She had wrapped it in paper, then put another layer on top of that. Then she put it in a bag.
Across the canal is a local body office. They have set up a large tarpaulin for people to cast their votes in today's election.
I do not know if Aunty or her family intend to cast votes, or if observing (cough, cough) the alcohol ban is the extent of their involvement in the affair.
As I write, boyfriend Maiyuu is sleeping, and shows no interest in exercising his democratic rights. As a foreigner, I get no right to vote. So, count us out then.
The ban on alcohol sales is lifted when poll booths close tonight.
I love Bangkok mornings. As I write this, it is 7am. The sun is up, and has cast a youthful glow on the skyline.
In front of our place is a stupa which has sat unfinished for years. Part of a local temple, green builder's netting surrounds its base. Occasionally the tiny figure of a builder pops up on one side, using a welder's arc.
If the wind blows down the netting, someone will replace it. Otherwise, months can go by and nothing will happen.For many middle-class Thais, tinkering about at home is best left to the Burmese help. If you can't afford Burmese help, then get the condo's handyman to do it. To lift up a hammer or screwdriver oneself is to admit you are poor.
We can't afford Burmese help, so we must help ourselves. Or rather Maiyuu must do it, as I am too clumsy with my hands.
Maiyuu has been busy with a screwdriver in one of our bathrooms, putting in a new toilet seat.
We rent two adjoining rooms. Each one has its own shower and toilet.
His old toilet seat came apart last week after a farang friend of mine was unkind to it.
Farang C, who was visiting, urinates from standing position. He opened the lid, but it fell shut while he was in mid-stream.
In frustration, he yanked the thing backwards, and broke it.
Maiyuu's bathroom is perhaps his favourite part of the condo. He has decorated it with incense sticks and candles, and keeps his smoking paraphernalia in there.
When he found that farang C had destroyed the seat, he was upset.
I am responsible for most of the breakages at our place, as I am cack-handed and clumsy. I bump into things and break them easily. In this case, I had to make an apology for farang C.
'I will have to buy a new one. Your farang friend should pay for it,' grumbled Maiyuu.
At the shops, Maiyuu bought me a pair of shoes for work. For himself, he bought himself a new china-blue plastic toilet seat.The royal blue seat clashes with the bowl, which is a cacky brown. However, it looks suitably regal - fit for a queen who does all her business in there sitting down, rather than in standing position like farang C.
Alert visitors can tell this is a gay household. I don't perform in standing position either. We are sit-down queens.I see Mr Esan is the carpark of the condo almost nightly. He has struck up a friendship with the security guard, who is also from the Northeast.
When I returned from work last night he was on the cellphone, as he usually is when I see him. I gave him a smile, but kept moving.
Fifteen minutes later, when I went down to get a food order, I found Mr Esan outside the lift, chatting to a young woman who lives in the building. They appeared to be swapping cellphone numbers.
Mr Esan should be careful. That tenant is a kept woman...an older man with gold chains and huge rings on his fingers pays for her condo and car, and drops in occasionally to see her.
Apart from that, Mr Esan has his own girlfriend. Won't she get jealous?
Mr Esan was wearing a long pair of green shorts, and a T-shirt, which is unusual for him, as normally at his hour he is wandering about shirtless.
When he saw me by the lift, he giggled. I said nothing, as I could see he was busy with the young woman.
I couldn't find any meat to eat in the market again yesterday, as we are still in the grip of a purist vegetarian food festival, where to eat meat is to sin.
Thai shopkeepers joke about it. I visited one shop yesterday, after the owner called out to me from the street.
The day before, I had turned down her offer to try vegetarian noodles.
'Come on - just the once,' she said.
I ordered khao pad kra pao jey - bamboo shoots, mushrooms tofu, and basil-leaf on rice.
The owner is a woman in her 40s, whose daughter, aged about 20, helps run the shop.
She was wearing pretty shorts and a T-shirt, and gave me a big smile.
A butch lesbian was sitting at a table with the daughter. She was wearing a saggy-baggy pair of jeans, and had dyed her hair gold. They look like girlfriends, and were together the last time I visited the shop, too.
The butch one wore her jeans like young men the same age. They hang off her rear end, and are torn at the bottom where she walks on the ends.
Two office staff turned up, and ordered. I heard the owner joke that to cook that dish would be a 'sin'.
After I finished my unspectacular basil and vegetable dish, I asked her if she would be tempted to cook meat for me, just once.
'No, I can't - there's another eight days to go,' she said.
The vegetarian festival is popular among Chinese. Some devotees get around entirely in white.
Today I saw two women clothed head to toe in white, walking along the railway line next to my place. They look like Buddhist nuns, who also wear white. Is that the idea?
-Mum's shop is dead. Two customers turned up for a beer in the three hours I was there last night - that was it.
When I arrived, Mum and her husband were eating a shrimp salad she had made. My God - fish meat! I thought.
Mum offered me a plate of it, which was dripping with mayonnaise. Delicious.
I spent the night watching comings and goings at her shop. Most customers dropped in for cigarettes, or a Pepsi on ice in a bag.
At Mum's request, I poured a few Pepsi drinks for customers, as I was sitting closer to the fridge cabinet.
Mum called over young Pao, from the shop next door, to order a tom yum dish.
I do not talk to Pao much these days, as all he and his friends who serve at the eatery next door ever want is money for beer and liquor.
However, Mum remembers that I like him.
'The farang wants to know if you would like a beer,' she joked.
I had not said a word, but I enjoyed the game she was playing.
Pao shook his head. No, of course I don't want a beer - not if it's coming from a farang who lusts after me!
Actually, Pao was probably not thinking that way. He, too, knows that I like him.
He is shy, and does not talk to me when people are present, even in front of Mum.
Once his eatery closes and there is no one else around, he relaxes and can be himself. When he is free for a beer, we talk.
The shop was quiet - only two regular customers turned up, both graduate performing arts students.
The pace of Thai life can be a contrary thing. If I try to hurry it, it will slow. If I am content just to watch, the scene will get lively.
But after a few hours, I felt in need of sleep, so trundled off home.
We are in day 2 of a nationwide vegetarian festival, which means that the places where I normally eat in my Thai market are serving only vegetarian food.
I like eating fried rice, pork and basil leaf. It comes with a fried egg on top. Even the egg was unavailable yesterday, though shopowners told me cheerfully that I could have a vegetarian mixture and basil leaf on top of the rice instead.Since when can a vegetarian not eat egg? I wanted to complain, but held my tongue.
I visited three eateries in the market. None would make the dish I wanted. 'We are not selling that - only vegetarian,' said one owner.
'For how long?'I asked.
'Nine days,' she said.
In the end I settled for vegetarian noodles. I told myself that they would cleanse my system, and my health would be better off for it.
Still, I was hungry again within an hour - as I knew I would be, as vegetarian food is not as filling.
How would I get through the next nine days?
Boyfriend Maiyuu and I order three or four dishes from an eatery under a tent opposite our condo every night. I pick them up after work. Would the owner of that place, too, be serving only vegetarian food?
When I went to pick up our order last night, I asked what was in the four white styrofoam boxes which she handed over.
'Is it vegetarian?'
'No - we don't sell it,' she said, smiling.The owner, Jay, understood my suffering. Most food places in the market are flying yellow and red flags proclaiming proudly that they are selling only vegetarian food.
Thankfully, a few brave souls are willing to carry on with business as usual, where at least customers get a choice.
The vegetarian festival is popular among Chinese. As I live in a market with many Thai-Chinese families - some of whom are so Chinese that the older members cannot speak Thai - I should not be surprised if I can't get meat.
Those who partake in vegetarian food for the festival believe it purifies the body and mind.
Yet the list of food on the no-go list is not confined to meat: any vegetable with a strong smell such as garlic, onion, Chinese chives and parsley can also be included in the ban, according to this backgrounder (link harvested - it died).
The truly dedicated dress in white, and pay homage at Chinese shrines.
The Chinese run one shrine along the railway line next to my place. I have seen a few people clad in white wandering around there since the festival began.Last night I visited a canalside restaurant on the outskirts of the market. They, too, were selling meat.
A few hours later, I was sitting in the condo carpark, waiting for shopowner Jay to finish my food order. I was thinking longingly of bed.
Weaving among the cars was a young man with his shirt off. As he walked closer, I saw it was Mr Esan from Floor 5. I haven't asked his name yet. He lives with his girlfriend - and knows that I fancy him.
He was chatting on the telephone. As I sat, I admired his well-built chest. He has a large tattoo on one shoulder, which is a pity.
I passed Mr Esan on my way to get my food. 'Why are you wearing no shirt?'I asked. He had tied his shirt around his waist.
'It's hot!' he said.
I rubbed his chest for him, and felt his arms.
'You don't feel hot!' I said.
He squealed, enjoying the attention.
On the way back, heading towards the entrance, I passed Mr Esan again. This time I rubbed my hands up and down his waist.
Mr Esan laughed. He was still chatting on his cellphone, just as he was when I first saw him 10 minutes before.
He was probably talking to his girlfriend, who also knows I fancy her mate. I am sure she doesn't mind: he's straight, so is unlikely to stray.
The security guard enjoys the game I play with Mr Esan. As he passed me in the carpark, he pointed towards Mr Esan, as if he wanted me to touch him again.
No, I thought: twice in one night is enough. We are supposed to be observing a religious festival where the object is to cleanse the mind. How can I do that if I am feeling a strange man's bare chest?
Postscript: The dish I long for is pad grapao moo sap....see the image below, which I took from a Thai blog.
'You can't hear anything when we go out shopping, even when I am standing right next to you, talking. You get irritable, which makes me stressed.'
That is Maiyuu's explanation of why we do not go shopping together any more - unlike in the old days, when I first arrived in Bangkok, when Maiyuu would take me to department stores every weekend.
I had wondered why we never do anything any more, other than occasional sorties to the shopping mall five minutes from our home. Now I know.
I remember those days. I was new in Bangkok. In the heat, as I trudged along behind my boyfriend, I didn't know how to cope, except complain. My legs ached, my clothes clung to my sweaty body. It was not a good feel, or a good look.
All around me were Thais who did not seem to feel the heat. They kept a perfect composure, despite the fetid environment: their clothes looked unrumpled, their lustrous hair was unmatted.
Their young faces shone with the radiance of youth, not with the sweat on their brow, as we pushed and jostled about, on a humid, uncomfortable Bangkok day.
If we were going to Mahboonkrong shopping centre near Siam Square, Maiyuu would take me on a bus. We would get off the bus, then board a boat across the Chao Phraya river.
After that, we'd hop on another bus.
Getting there would take an hour. And that's even before the endless slog through the Mahboonkrong shopping centre, or other department stores in the area, even began - in search of trendy clothes shops, boutique earring outlets (he liked those - don't ask me why), stalls selling cheap but reliable movie and music CDs...
My boyfriend, raised in the provinces, was himself new to Bangkok when we met. Yet he appeared to know everything. I cannot recall one occasion - even one - when he would guide me on to the wrong bus, board a boat which went somewhere else, or even take me on to the wrong skytrain platform. He knew exactly where to go, yet he had been in this big city just six months before me.
Some Thais from the provinces accomplish far less. One foreigner friend tells me how he took a girl from the provinces to a Macro department store in Bangkok - only to have the girl freeze, too scared to venture any further.
An outing with Maiyuu to Mahboonkrong department store would take a whole day. I would spend half the next day recovering.
I don't want to go back to that phase in our relationship: it was too draining. That's why I am happy for Maiyuu to assume sole responsibility for shopping in town.
When I need new work shoes, as I do now, I ask Maiyuu to buy them. He goes to Silom or our old stamping ground, Siam Square, for a look.
He goes alone, as he is no longer willing to tolerate my constant complaints about the heat, sore feet, and so on.
Normally he comes back with a new pair of shoes, or new clothes if I need them, within a couple of days of my asking. Now he's getting slack.
More than six weeks ago, I told Maiyuu that the soles of my work shoes were getting thin, and I would like some new ones. He claims he went to Siam for a look, and ordered a pair. However, the shop had no shoes in farang size in stock. I would have to wait.
Well, it's now been weeks, and still no action. I threatened - oops, offered - to go shopping myself.
'My shoes hurt. Next week, I will go to Siam myself to look for a pair of shoes, as your shop takes too long. Please withdraw the money for me,' I told Maiyuu yesterday.
I knew that would get him going. Maiyuu likes to keep control of the finances, as he reckons I am no good with money. Left to my own devices, I would buy poor-quality shoes which are too expensive.
'I will take another look for you myself,' he said.
That's better. I had no intention of going back to Siam - I haven't visited the place in years. That's a place for the young. Let the Thai boyfriend do it, if he is so determined to hang on to my money.
Siam Square is a place of love, according to the director of the gay movie set there, Love of Siam. In that case, let Maiyuu show his love by going in search of a new pair of shoes for his fussy, hard-of-hearing farang boyfriend.
