Real love draws closer

I am doing my best to make Maiyuu’s New Year’s wish – to discover true love – come true.

He sent me a sad text message around Christmas, saying he hoped to find ‘true love’ in the year ahead, as if it had eluded him in the past. We have been together 10 years.

He wants to encourage me, as his boyfriend, to show him more of the attention which he believes he is due.

We have been seeing more of each other over the last month or so.

While I still visit Ball’s family in the slum, it is mainly on my days off, and then only briefly, as I am also teaching.

Maiyuu appears to enjoy the attention. A few days ago, he asked me why I was spending so little time outside home.

‘Because my boyfriend sent me a message saying he would like to find true love,’ I said. ‘I have neglected you.’

Maiyuu looked surprised that I should care, but I can see he is secretly pleased.

Two days ago, he bought some flowering plants for our balcony, which has a splendid view of Silom, but no greenery as such.

'You are graduating from chef, to gardener,' I remarked.

He laughed.
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BTW: Like to see this blog in Thai?

If you go to Google translate, pop the address of this blog in the translation bar, then hit English-Thai, it will translate the page for you.

I tried it out a moment ago, and it translated this page instantly. The page looks the same, complete with pics, only in Thai.

The Thai translation is supplied by computer software, and is odd in parts, but is still worth a read.

Happy families

I am back in regular contact with my young man and his family, which feels good.

When I dropped by yesterday, one of the toddlers had managed to lock himself in to Mum's room. His mother and Ball's younger brother Beer, who were in the living room, were figuring out ways to get the door open.

'Kick it in,' I suggested.

Someone came up with a kitchen knife, but discarded it, as it may have been too dangerous.

The drama had passed by evening when I called in again to find the door open, and no one at home but for Mr Ball, who was preparing to take a shower.

He had spent most of the day in bed nursing a head cold. Today, however, he intends applying for a job.

His friend Y, who lives nearby, has suggested they apply together, though I do not know where they intend going.

It is time Ball found a job. I am sure it will improve his self-confidence, and self-respect.

Ball sees Y almost every night, after months in which they rarely met.

I am pleased for them. Y has even less money than Ball, and asks Ball out at night to join him for a can of beer or a simple meal.

With the allowance I intend giving Mr Ball every week, Ball can afford to spend a little money on his friend as well.

It is almost a mirror the relationship I have going with Ball, only Ball, this time, is the one doing the caring for his friend Y.

Ball is getting better, and so am I. We no longer meet during the day to drink. Nor do I buy the brown stuff before work for him as I used to do in the past.

Once these were mainstays of our relationship, but I started to worry about the effect they were having on him, and the fact that spending so much on him left me with no money.

Even if I didn't drop in and buy anything, his mother would often call me at work to ask if she could put a half-bottle on tick.

I put a stop to that a couple of weeks ago, when I said that if I was not present, I would not pay for any more drinks. That's when I started keeping my distance from the family, until we reached a point in the last few days when I felt I should explain myself to Ball, as he and I were growing apart.

We now feel much closer. Mum is happier to have my calling again, as she appears to enjoy our talks. Maybe my presence in his life also has a calming effect on Mr Ball.

อารมณ์น้อยๆของคนเดียวดาย ไม่คิดเคยทำร้ายใคร

กับใจน้อยๆ ที่ล้มลงไป ไม่หวังให้ใครให้คืน

(Thee Chaiyadej, 20202)

Dad apologises to son

I dropped in to see Ball in the morning. He was asleep.

His mother invited me upstairs, so I could talk to him as he lay in bed.

She said he could do with a cheap clothes hanger for his extra clothes. I agreed to buy one.

Mum went downstairs and left us at peace.

I spoke to my ‘son’ at length. I said I was unhappy about his mother's habit of leaving home in early morning and abandoning Ball and his elder brother Boy to care for the toddlers all day.

'It is your duty to find work outside home, so you can make money to build a better life. It's Mum’s job to look after the kids, not spend the day outside home in the company of friends as she has been doing.’

Ball said nothing, but I suspect he agrees.

I attempted to explain my absence over the last week.

‘I haven’t been dropping in to buy the brown stuff in the evenings because I want to save money.

‘I also want you to be around for a long time to come, and I can’t be sure of that if you are drinking,’ I said.

‘Soon, you will be a dad. I have to help prepare you for the big day,’ I said.

Ball smiled, and laughed at the right moments. We communicate often by humour.

‘I am sure you felt upset that I stayed away. How angry did you feel? I want to know,’ I said.

'I didn’t feel resentful. I just wondered what was wrong to make you stay away,' he said quietly.

I gave Ball some money last week as a New Year's present, to help him celebrate at a karaoke shop.

In the end, he didn’t go. ‘I stayed around home. I bought just a couple of cans of beer a night, or spent it on food. I didn't go out anywhere over New Year, but made the money last four or five days,’ he said.

Ball is learning how to use money prudently. I might carry on giving him a small allowance every week until he finds a job, as a test of his ability to look after money, measure his wants, and plan for what he needs.

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.

New Year's lament

Mum has started her birthday celebrations.

Her birthday falls on Jan 2, but as it coincides with the festive period over New Year, she starts the merry-making early on Dec 31.

The last time I visited, her son Ball told me that he was planning to go out with friends for a night of karaoke on New Year’s Eve. Would I care to give him a New Year’s present – cash slipped in an envelope?

I gave him some cash, which I hand-delivered early yesterday. Ball was still asleep, so I entrusted the money to his elder brother Boy.

Last night I called his mother to wish her a happy birthday. She reminded me I still owed her B100 from one night earlier in the week when she succumbed to her son’s pleadings for a drink.

She had called me at work, and asked me if I would like to pay the bill if she bought alcohol on tick for her dependent son.

‘Why not ask Ball to give you a share of the money I gave him as a New Year’s gift?’ I suggested.

‘If he’s spending it on brown stuff, it will all be gone by now,’ she said.

I dropped in after work last night to give her the B100 I owed, and reflected on the fact that if her family wasn’t so eager for money, I might want to visit more often.

As it is, I call in only rarely, usually on days off. I seldom call the mother any more, because I know that if I do, there’s a chance she’ll ask me to pay for her son’s drinking habits.

Every day is a new day when he wants to toss it back again.

Ball’s mother has noticed my absences, and the fact that I seldom call, or pick up her calls to me.

‘I am too busy,’ I say, and partly that is true. I am working overtime at the office, teaching, and helping the son of a work friend brush up a university assignment.

But the real reason for my absences - I was once a daily visitor - is that I resent having to pay money in the slums for so little reward.

I would like to carry on with my role as mentor to young Ball, as he is an innocent in so many ways of the world.

I cannot blame him for teenage-like behaviour. It is a reflection of his age, and he doesn’t know any better.

But if his mother is not prepared to step in and do her job as a parent, what are the rest of us supposed to do?

When I called last night, she admitted she hadn’t seen her son all day. She clears out of home early in the morning, and spends the days performing errands, or (more often) with friends.

Ball hasn’t worked since mid-November. He tells his mother: ‘Oh, I will look for a job in the New Year.’

That kind of slackness is unacceptable, but it carries on in their household, because his mother is too weak to put her foot down.

Nor could I accept the nightly drinking, and – worst of all – the fact that he is so happy to ask people for money to feed his habit.

I want to spend my time with quality people, as life is bigger, and better than this. They might all come right in the end, but who can afford to sit around waiting?

Ball seldom asks his mother to pay...but he will ask me, because I have said yes in the past, and am less likely to object, even in the half-hearted way his mother does.

Bugger that. I am not there to be used.

No one has any capital, because they squander it on empty pursuits. Mr Ball can’t afford his imbibing habit. Nor can he afford to stay out of work, as his girlfriend is pregnant, and he will be a father soon.

I will carry on seeing him on my days off, but the relationship we once enjoyed is no more.

Happy New Year to readers, and thank you once again for supporting this blog.