Hot in the City

It is hot. Very hot. In fact, it is so hot I may just have to use a capital H. It is Hot. I am sitting at my laptop, the fan going like the clappers above my head, trying its best to cool me down, but it is not working. I feel clammy and even the cool air the fan is sending my way isn't deterring the moisture from rising to the surface of my skin and settling in an oily slick. It is 9am. This does not bode well for the rest of the day.

Yesterday morning I knew that the thirty minute walk to the club wasn't going to be fun when I could feel a trickle of sweat working its way down my spine before I had even left the flat. I was proved right as soon as I stepped out from the shade of the building and out into the glaring heat of the sun in a cloudless sky. Before I had even reached the end of our street the one droplet of sweat I had felt in the flat had multiplied and by the time I was on the main road even my legs were damp. Walking past the meteorological centre, I noted the temperature on the digital display. It read 33 degrees centigrade and a whopping 90% humidity. Of course, despite the reasonably high temperature, it was the latter that was causing the unsightly and extremely uncomfortable perspiration. A high humidity level makes 33 degrees centigrade feel like 50. I couldn't have arrived at the club soon enough and, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the changing rooms, I had to do a double take. I looked like I had just jumped in the pool, which was ironic as that was exactly what I craved at that moment. I was dripping. It was not pleasant.

I am about to make that same journey but this time I am prepared - loose, breathable cotton top: check. Bottle of ice cold water: check. Cool flannel: check. Hat: check. It's amazing the preparation that goes into a thirty minute walk in a tropical country!

Can't Complain

I’ll admit it, I spend a great deal of time on this blog moaning about things out here but only because it’s those things that are most interesting. Plus, you’d get very bored if all I did was go on about how wonderful life is in Thailand. The truth is, it’s pretty great. There have been some incredibly frustrating moments, incidents that have made me laugh out loud with the ridiculousness of the situation, and there are definitely things I miss about home, but there are times when I think to myself just how lucky we are to have had this experience. Times like last Friday evening. The Husband and I went out for dinner at a restaurant right by the beach. We sat at a table under the stars, with the sound of the sea gently lapping at the shore playing in our ears, and ate fried rice in a hollowed out pineapple, spring rolls, chicken and cashew nuts, and a spicy Thai salad. After dinner, we made our way down to the beach and walked barefoot in the sand, the cool sea breeze a welcome relief to the warmth of the evening. It felt like we were on holiday. We play tennis every weekend (without the need for layers or rain breaks), sunbathe by the pool (of which we have a choice between the pool where we live or the one at the club) and on the beach, and have eaten more al fresco meals in the past year than we ever have done. It’s not a bad life here really.

Facebook Types

My blog yesterday got me thinking about the various types that are registered with Facebook and how the way people utilise it is generally a reflection of their personalities. There are those that post elusive statuses in an attempt to illicit dozens of comments from 'friends'. For example, a post might go something like, "Louise Humphries: is worried...", prompting other Facebook users to reply with comments such as, "Oh, are you alright honey?", "Worried about what? Hugs", or "I'm here for you if you need me". Louise Humphries is probably only worried about whether she should order a Chinese or pizza for dinner but she has accomplished what she set out to do, for this is a classic attention-seeking Facebook action. Taken to the extreme, there are those who may have real problems but that really should keep those problems private and not announce them on Facebook. If you have just discovered you have a serious and life-long illness, confide in your true friends and family in person or on the phone, not to all five hundred of your Facebook 'friends'. The same goes for those who find it perfectly normal to post updates on their marital problems, sex lives and bowel movements (yes, unfortunately, I have seen someone do that). One word: don’t.

Then you have the time-wasters/people who genuinely have no life. They are the ones who post dozens of status updates a day. "Ben Daniels: had cornflakes for breakfast", "Ben Daniels: is bored at work", "Ben Daniels: can't wait till 5pm", "Ben Daniels: is thinking about what to have for tea", "Ben Daniels: doesn't want to go to the gym", Ben Daniels: is in the car on the way home" (this will be sent from his iPhone - Ben Daniels cannot even wait until he gets home to post something on Facebook), "Ben Daniels: is watching Eastenders", "Ben Daniels is tired and thinks he might go to bed". All of these are posts that I have actually seen on Facebook. If you haven't got anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all. The world doesn't want to know what you had for breakfast. But then again, there will always be those equally dull Facebookers that comment on those unnecessary statuses. "I love cornflakes!"

There are some who seem to think Facebook is just a big competition to see who can have the most ‘friends’. I have lost count of the number of times someone I have never heard of has requested to be my friend on the site. These are probably the people who don’t have any friends in real life. In fact, to them, Facebook probably is real life.

Possibly the most annoying Facebook types are those that send some sort of quiz to you every day. In that long ago time before Facebook, they would have been the ones responsible for those dull forwards with lame jokes landing in my inbox on a daily occurrence. Why do I want to know what alcoholic drink I’d be? The same goes for which cast members of various TV series’ I’d be, what age I’ll be when I have my first baby and which animal I’m most like. I also don’t want to know what score you have achieved on Facebook Scrabble, bingo, or any other of the games you can lose hours on.

Finally, I can’t forget the photo bores. If I have been on holiday, have attended a wedding or birthday party or have had a night out with a group of friends I haven’t seen in a while, I’ll create an album with a selection of photos. Photo bores take their cameras everywhere with them and will then post every single photo they have taken . Theirs will be the albums with 200 pictures, including the blurred ones and the ones that are similar to five other ones. Often these photo bores will also be serious attention-seekers – this is quite obvious from the fact that they are in every other photo, normally doing some sort of outrageous pose.

I may be a Facebookaholic but I can take comfort in the knowledge that it could be worse. I could be one of the above.

Confessions of a Facebookaholic

Hi, my name is Emily and I am a Facebookaholic. Phew, it feels good to get that off my chest, to out my dirty little secret . It is shameful to admit it but, alas, it is the truth. Facebook is the bane of all those who work from home for, with just the click of a mouse, a whole world is available to you. Sitting on your own in your study, your bedroom, your front room, or at the kitchen table, you can automatically be transported to a party to which all of your friends, both past and current, and from all over the globe, have been invited. You can see what they are up to, with photo evidence, at any time of the day or night. When you’re all alone at home, with no-one to talk to and no-one to glance over your shoulder and see what’s on your screen, the urge to type in that web address can often be too powerful to resist.

Although I have been signed up to Facebook for a few years now, back in England I would only occasionally log on to the site, perhaps when I had half an hour or so at the weekend to kill. That is, I suppose, partly due to the fact that most of my friends live in England and therefore if anything interesting happened I’d get a phone call, if there were any great photos to see I would be shown them in person. The main reason that my relationship with Facebook was as a casual acquaintance rather than a full-blown love affair whilst in the UK, however, is that I couldn’t access the site at work. Without being able to log on during the day, and not wanting to switch on my laptop at home after a full day in front of a computer screen, little time was available to check the statuses of long-lost friends.

Here, the first thing I do when I switch on my computer is check the BBC website for any important news that might have passed us by in Thailand, then my emails, and then Facebook. It has become part of the structure of my day. Facebook appeals to my passion for the details of other people’s lives. I, along with The Mother from whom I must have inherited it, am an avid people-watcher, and can miss whole conversations on my table in a restaurant by listening intently to the conversations on other tables. On Facebook, this often leads me to click through wedding albums of people I don’t even know. If a friend has been tagged in an album, I will have a look but then peruse the entire album. Sometimes, as I am looking at newlyweds , I have never even heard of in the church and at their reception, and people I have never met at a party or on holiday, I do have stop and ask myself what I’m doing. It is disconcerting to think about how much time I must have wasted looking at the photos of strangers and the statuses of people I don’t even care about.

I do have a single, but really rather good, excuse - that I am merely ensuring that I don’t lose touch with people whilst abroad and thousands of miles away from them. I really must stop attempting to keep up with the lives of total strangers though.

Aged Leather

There lives a special breed of people here in Pattaya that can be found in pretty much every hot and sunny holiday destination around the world. I have spotted them in Greece, in Costa Rica, in Spain, in Bali, the list goes on. I am referring to those who have spent so long baking in the hot sun, with only some sort of oil slicked over their parched bodies, that their skin has turned as brown as a nut and looks as though it would feel like the hide of an elephant. These sun worshippers have left their colder countries of birth to enjoy year-round sun and warmth in retirement. Don't get me wrong, I too am partial to days lost to a good book, a sun lounger and the warmth of the Thai sun on my skin. I do, however, limit myself to a couple of days a week and slather my body with a high-factor suncream. There is something rather off-putting about an OAP with skin hardened to leather and browner than the locals' and I don't plan to join this group in my dotage.

It's always lovely to have a bit of a tan - it's slimming, gives your skin a healthy-looking glow, but above all makes you feel happy and healthy. What isn't so attractive is a tan so deep that you don't look like yourself. We recently drove past a man who was probably in his sixties and both burst out laughing simultaneously without even looking at each other. His skin was so dark it looked like he was in a movie from the first half of the twentieth century, when any character from foreign lands was played by a Caucasian actor who was simply 'blacked up'. It really did look like he had applied a thick layer of stage make-up all over his body. He probably thought he looked great but the effect was laughable. Goodness knows the damage he has done to his skin. He was walking towards the beach, no doubt to spend another day roasting on the spit, turning occasionally to brown on all sides.

No, I Don't Want To High-Five You, Go For A Drink With You, Or Get On The Back Of Your Bike

There is something about Pattaya that turns all males here into lecherous old men. I expect it has something to do with the fact that, walking down many of the sois here, men will be wolf-whistled at, cajoled into entering bars with the calls of 'herro sexy man' and even physically get pulled into them by a bevvy of scantily dressed Thai women. They get used to being wanted, and seem to forget that it's only their money these women want and therefore sleazing on a normal girl walking down the road won't result in them running up and jumping in their arms.

It's this 'money for honey' philosophy that pervades Pattaya which draws, to be blunt, the ugly, the boring, and the social outcasts to this city. Pattaya is perfect for the type of man that no girl would look twice at in their home country. Here, they have their pick of beautiful Thai women, even if they do have to pay for them. Go-go girls are experts at making even the ugliest men feel like Adonis’. Many of the male tourists here don't just pay for sex - when they hand their money over they are paying to feel good about themselves. The girls will hold their hand, hug them, tell them they're handsome, funny, intelligent. That's all fine, as long as these men remember that they can't just approach any woman and expect them to fall at their feet or, as most often happens, expect them to jump on the back of their mopeds.

Beach Road Safari Park

Pattaya is heaving. The city is in the middle of a tourist boom and looks significantly different from this time a year ago. The bars are packed and the streets are overflowing with tourists, propped up by a healthy dose of US marines here for some R&R. A number of ships recently docked in the port just north of Pattaya and ever since a large number of rather stacked, thick-necked, buzz-cut Americans have been trawling the bars of Sin City. Driving back from the cinema at around 11pm last night, we spent a good half an hour crawling down Beach Road in horrendous traffic. The upshot of this was the best people-watching I think I have ever experienced! Men with huge bellies flopping out of the bottom of their brightly coloured floral shirts, men who looked like they hadn't had a proper meal in years, short men, tall men, men of all nationalities. They were all out last night.

To our right was the beach and the promenade that runs alongside it where, with the setting of the sun, the ladies of the night start to appear. By 11pm they lined the street. These are the freelancers, usually the ones who didn't make the cut at the bars and clubs but sometimes women that prefer to stand and wait for men to come to them rather than having to dance for their money. This makes for a real assortment of women - some struggling to keep their 'curves' in their short, tight dresses, some making sure they stay slightly in the shadows to hide their less than attractive faces, all mixed in with some girls who are rather more pleasing to the eye. Of course, there are also those 'women of the second kind' as the Thais like to call them. Amongst all these women, and in the darkness of the night, the ladyboys can often be difficult to distinguish from those with two X chromosomes, especially, I should imagine, after a few Singha beers.

Amongst the sad, desperate men, walking down the road clutching bottles of beer and ogling the women for sale, were ordinary tourists who wandered around open-mouthed, taking it all in, just as we had done when we first arrived. On several occasions we spotted Russian women who, from behind, looked just like one of the hookers on the promenade, dressed as they were in their short skirts, plunging necklines, and towering heels. How they managed to walk down the potholed pavement without falling over, I don't know. I expect there are a more than a few heel-related injuries in Pattaya each night.

By the time we reached the end of Beach Road, turning away from Walking Street, the destination of most of the walking traffic, I had seen more than enough - there are only so many beer bellies a person can take. It was time to leave the safari park.

Big Forehand? Big Ego

The club at which we play tennis is actually part of a hotel and therefore most people using the facilities are hotel guests. It's easy to spot the relatively few long-term members - they're the ones you see week after week at the gym, the pool and on the courts. There is one member in particular who stands out, which I am sure is precisely his intention. Big Frank. Outside the club's reception there is a white board on which there is a space for you to write your name and phone number if you want to be available to be contacted to play tennis with another member. There is also a space for you to write a comment. Presumably the idea of this was that people could write down which days they are and aren't available. Big Frank, however, took this as an opportunity to show off, as we have since learnt he does whenever he can. He wrote 'big forehand'. When we first saw that, without having met him, we knew he was a prat. Since having the honour of seeing him action on several occasions, I'm surprised 'big forehand' was all he boasted about.

Big Frank likes to play tennis bare-chested, which I find highly inappropriate. We are not playing beach tennis - some sort of decorum should be upheld. At first I thought that, although still inexcusable, perhaps he was merely hot. But no, I recently saw him remove his shirt as soon as he arrived, before flexing his guns a few times. He is also in the habit of dropping to the ground in between points and doing push-ups, as well as calling out 'come on, give it to me' whilst playing. The Husband once shared the changing room with him and witnessed him shaving his chest in the sink. Apparently he also likes to wander around the changing room completely naked, seemingly encouraging other men to look at his package. You will perhaps be surprised to know that he is not American but completely unsurprised to find that he is French.

Anyone For Tennis?

I have been to a few professional tennis tournaments around the world but have never been to one quite like the Pattaya Open. It was truly an 'only in Pattaya' kind of a day. As a WTA event, it's on the women's tour, earning the players points and a nice bit of prize money, so we assumed the organisation would be slick and efficient. Of course, we forgot that we were in Pattaya, which runs to its own beat. I had booked tickets online which had been posted to me a week before the event, so we went straight to the court, bypassing the crowd at the ticket desk, and handed our tickets to the usher. Usefully for an international event with spectators of all nationalities, he spoke absolutely no English but we gathered from the grunt and finger pointing back towards the ticket desk that there was something wrong. Slightly irritated now, we navigated our way through the throng of people making their way to the court and stood, like the polite English people we are, at the back of the crowd. There was no form of queue whatsoever and it became increasingly obvious that if we were going to get our tickets sorted out before the match started we were going to have to take a slightly more forceful approach. This is where being taller than pretty much all of the Thais helps considerably. I waved the tickets over their heads and grabbed the attention of the rather fraught looking man behind the desk. He took my tickets, looked at them and aged another few years. Not a good sign.

Five minutes later, our tickets were handed back to me but with different seat numbers written on them in pen. "I upgrade you," I was told. It would seem that our seats had been given to someone else, and, judging by the baying crowd surrounding the desk, we weren't the only ones. Not a good start, but if our seats had been upgraded who was I to complain? Upon reaching our seats, I realised that our 'upgrade' consisted of being a mere one row in front of our original seats. We had also been given seats 30, 31, 32 and 34. Our upgrade was soon turning into a downgrade. Luckily, the man who held the ticket for seat 33 was on his own so happily sat in seat 34.

It soon became clear, as the match got under way, that many people had been given the wrong seats as latecomers hurried to their seats at the change of ends to find someone else in them. Cue mass confusion and more than a few arguments. Given that there was only one point of access to the stand, people were then left standing with nowhere even to perch as the match resumed, which was very off-putting for the players and annoying for the rest of us as we had to crane our necks to see the tennis! A large percentage of those with seat issues were Russian which made a bad situation even worse as they continued to argue when the players were back on court. The poor umpire really had her work cut out for her trying to control the spectators as the security team did absolutely nothing!

We seemed to be sat in Camp Russia. We were surrounded by them, many with Russian flags and all with bellowing voices. The final was between Vera Zvonareva of Russia and Tamarine Tanasugarn of Thailand and since Pattaya is basically made up of Russians and Thais, there was fierce competition both on and off the court. The Russians cheered and chanted every time Vera won a point, drowning out the poor Thais. One particular incredibly annoying child (whose parents seemed to have disowned him and had sat somewhere else) would chant and cheer after every single point. Tamarine had her own supporters however, notably in the form of a bunch of Thais dressed in national costume, one man wearing a dress, with huge Thai flags, oversized racquets and even musical instruments. It felt at times as though we were at a football match rather than a tennis match, especially when several fat Russians behind us (one sporting a 'Good Guys Go To Heaven, Bad Guys Go To Pattaya' t-shirt) started to shout 'Out!' in the middle of any points in which they felt Vera had been unfairly treated by the linespeople. Not quite the done thing. It did, however, make for rather a carnival atmosphere around the court, not something I've ever felt at Wimbledon!

To be fair, the linespeople were making some rather bad calls. Not only that but they took a distinctively Thai approach, only calling several seconds after the ball had landed. Apparently, there was no rush. The ballkids, too, were extremely relaxed, sauntering over to pick balls up, and sometimes not picking them up at all. The players had to point to a ball on the court on more than one occasion!

Eventually, we just relaxed into it too. There was no point getting frustrated at people having loud conversations mid-point, or answering their mobile phones, as it seemed to just be accepted. This is Thailand and they were doing things in their own unique way!

Is She or Isn't She?

It proudly billed itself as 'The original transvestite cabaret show', so how could we not go? I've been told that not going to Tiffany's when in Pattaya is like going to Paris and not visiting the Eiffel Tower. I'm not sure they're quite the same thing but I certainly didn't want to miss out on an entire evening of marvelling at how a man could look so much like a woman. And besides, Thailand is famous for it ladyboys. On the whole, Thai society is far less disparaging towards transvestites and transsexuals than the West, with the result that many live openly, and proudly, as such. There are a great number in Pattaya, and it's often hard to tell them apart from genuine women. The majority of them are slim with smooth skin and glossy hair but they are peacocks - they love showing off and flaunt their femininity in everything they do, from the way they dress to their effeminate mannerisms. So, that beautiful girl sashaying down the pavement, swinging her hips from side to side and grinning and winking at every man she passes, is probably a transvestite, or kathoey.

When you consider all this, Tiffany's really is a must-see for any visitor to Pattaya, which is something the city's tourist board has obviously milked for all its worth considering the sheer number of coaches in the car-park, disgorging its passengers like products on a factory belt. Most of the coaches also managed to turn up late, meaning that the first ten minutes of the show was spent getting up to let people pass down the row and craning our necks to see the stage between the bodies of late-comers sauntering in with their brightly coloured, e-number packed sodas. The theatre is a gaudy looking building, designed to resemble a palace (but one which was built on a tight budget), complete with white columns and lit up like a Christmas tree - I'm sure the Russians love it. The show itself was pretty ordinary -the dancing was amateurish and it was all mimed, however the costumes and set design were rather spectacular, as were the ladyboys themselves. Some were really quite beautiful. And I suppose that is the point of such a show - it's a spectacle and everything was purposefully over-the-top. You don't go to a transvestite cabaret show to watch world-class dancing and singing after all.

Whistles at the Ready

Thailand is awash with what must be one of the most pointless job roles in the world - the parking attendant. Usually dressed in the uniform of a guard, complete with cap, the parking attendant can be found in almost any car park in Thailand. They will be heard before they are seen - the high pitched toot of a whistle blown over and over again signals their presence. Parking attendants seem, in fact, to be surgically attached to their whistles, like a child with a beloved toy. The whistles rarely leave their mouths, blown without abandon, whether the situation necessitates it or not. I can just envisage the scene at Parking Attendant School: a classroom of men, whistles at the ready, waiting for the teacher to mimic a car approaching them. All at once, every single man in the room (for it seems to be a job only men are allowed to do, I am as yet to witness a female parking attendant. Perhaps we don't have the lung capacity) blows for all his worth. End of lesson, certificate given to all.

Often, the role of the parking attendant isn't even to assist in directing you into a space, they merely stand at a bend in the road in the car park, helpfully pointing you around said bend. Just in case that bend completely confused you, causing you to crash in a mad panic. Then again, I suppose that isn't an entirely ridiculous scenario. This is, after all, a country where the right cash in the right pocket will earn you a driving license. You only have to witness the terrible driving on the road here to appreciate that perhaps, for some, the shrill sound of a whistle is music to the ears.

Playing Chicken

There is a flock of chickens living on a patch of undeveloped land next to our flats. A man comes by on his moped a few times a day and feeds them, occasionally separating them into little groups under big woven baskets. I'm still not sure why. They are the skinniest chickens I have ever seen. They are certainly fed enough so it must be because they're Thai chickens. Just as Thai people are smaller are slighter than those in the west, Thai chickens have different physiques to their counterparts in colder north-western countries. It makes sense I suppose - an excess of feathers in this heat and humidity would be rather uncomfortable I should imagine.

They actually live in a coop across the narrow street from the patch of land they run around on and we occasionally have to wait in the car for them to run across. This can take a while as they tend to panic - some run straight across on their skinny little legs, some turn and run back the way they came from, and some simply run around in circles. Like headless chickens in fact. But with their heads intact on their scrawny little necks.

There is a cockerel living amongst the chickens who seems to have a problem telling the time. He crows, as expected, early in the morning, but then continues to crow in erratic bursts throughout the day. Perhaps he just has lots of naps. He is a Thai cockerel after all.

Look At Me, Look At Me!

We were driving home from a restaurant built into the rocks, overlooking the sea, after a quiet dinner with friends, when we heard it. The most bone-jarring music, the kind you feel before you hear, thumping out of a line of cars. These weren't ordinary cars however, they were 'I have a very small package and therefore need to compensate by pimping up my car' kind of cars. You know the sort - huge sound system with woofers and sub-woofers installed so that the whole car moves when the music, which seems to be programmed to only play at such a volume that you'd be able to hear it a mile away. Neon lights lighting up the car like a Christmas tree. The car so low on the ground you'd be forgiven for thinking it was a Flintstone car, waiting for the driver to put his feet down, pick it up and run with it. There were a row of probably about ten of these poser-mobiles parked up near the pier, most with their doors wide open, presumably in case you had a severe hearing problem and couldn't hear the deafening music. It was so kind of them for sharing their noise with us. It made our night.

Strange Creatures by the Pool

There are currently a party of seven rather large Germans staying in one of the apartments in our development. A couple would probably be termed morbidly obese, the others stocky, perhaps bordering on obese. The mother has the neck of a weightlifter - I've never seen anything quite like it before on a woman. There is no clear delineation between her neck and head, it appears at first glance as if she has a box on the top of her shoulders. It is not helped by the fact that her hair is closely cropped to her head, only adding to the squareness. The father's moobs rest on his vast stomach, which disconcertingly hides his tiny swimming trunks, giving the impression that he is completely naked. The children, all in their twenties, have unfortunately inherited their parents' shapes yet also wear very tiny swimming attire.

I have had the pleasure of observing all this from the window in our kitchen as they have taken over the pool every day for the past couple of weeks. I say 'taken over' quite literally as they have sprawled across every inch of the area surrounding the pool. Towels have been placed proprietorially on each sunbed almost from dawn. In fact, that is how I surmised they were German. It is a lovely sight, the seven of them flopped on their sunbeds, flesh squeezing out between the armrests, slowly turning a particularly vibrant shade of raspberry. It is enough to make me want to drop to the ground and do one hundred crunches, followed by a half marathon. And I don't run. In fact, I'm just off to the gym now...

Fuming over Fumes

I've never played tennis in a bus terminus before and I can say with absolute certainty now that I would never want to. Of course, I've never really thought about it before. It would be rather strange to hit a ball around at a bus station and I'm sure it's not the venue choice of any tennis player. The Husband and I got an inkling of what it may be like yesterday though, when we were playing at our club. Over the weekend a big financial expo was being held at the convention centre adjoining the Royal Cliff Hotel, where our club is situated, generating a large number of vehicles all needing somewhere to park. Some official, who had obviously been dropped on his head at birth, thought it a fantastic idea to direct the coaches to park in an area behind the tennis courts. They were harmless for the first ten minutes of our time on court. Then they all simultaneously turned their engines on. Cue vast clouds of fumes ballooning out of the exhaust of each coach. Unluckily for us, the wind was blowing in our direction, sending the vile fumes directly at us. We played on for a couple of points before the coughing and spluttering became too much. By now, the fumes were actually visible, floating around the court and we were breathing it all in. Not the most pleasant environment to be playing tennis in. We immediately requested to move to a court further away from the idling buses but I continued to taste the acrid taste of those toxic fumes for at least a further half an hour. Presumably the divers were air conditioning their coaches to cool the interior before picking up its passengers but surely it doesn't take an hour and a half, the length of time they were running their engines before moving off. Clearly, the drivers were luxuriating in the cool of the air-conditioner without a care for the damage they were doing to the air quality outside. What did it matter to them? They were inside, nice and cool and probably asleep.

The Mysterious Market-Concert

Wednesday, 2pm: A loud screech from a sound system or an incredibly loud microphone brutally shakes me from my reverie, bent over the laptop trying to write an article on promotions. At first I thought the racket was coming from a passing pick-up truck, advertising a Thai boxing match or a pop concert, but when it didn't stop I knew it must be originating from a stationary venue. That's an unmoving venue, and not one in which paper, pencils, pens, pencil sharpeners, and other stationery converge. The screeching of the sound system turned into a screeching of voices, first talking and then singing. Badly. Or it could just have sounded bad because they were Thai songs which do involve a lot of wailing, whining and screeching. A bit like a drunk Celine Dion. As you might imagine, it was pretty difficult to get much work done so I gave up and went to the gym at around four o'clock, hoping that by the time I came back whatever was going on would have ended.

Unfortunately, the noise seemed only to have intensified when I returned at six. They, whoever they were and whatever they were doing, seemed to be gearing up for a big evening. The Husband came in through the door shortly after I did and reported that there was a huge market set up on some waste ground not far from where we live. Dozens of stalls and a stage had been set up, from where the terrible noise was emanating. Only the day before I had wandered past that area and there was no sign of anything being erected. There had been no posters to advertise anything, not even a pick-up truck screaming about it from its loudspeakers. This market-cum-concert seemed to have appeared from nowhere. What was particularly baffling was that I went to check it out in the light of day yesterday and it had mysteriously vanished. There was no evidence that there had ever been any sort of activity there at all. They must have packed it all up and fled as soon as it was over, in the middle of the night. Perhaps it's part of some sort of underground Thai network that secretly organises really terrible concerts and then flee before the bad music police can capture them and lock them away forever. Whatever it is, I just hope that they never set up near us again!

1.5 Hours of Pure Bliss

Following my neck/shoulder/upper back injury a couple of weeks ago, the Husband and I went to a spa that specialises in traditional Thai therapies, including the famous Thai massage. After several tortuous hours spent in the grips of a tiny Thai massage therapist with the strength of ten men, I now try to steer clear of that particular form. I did feel fantastic for days after each massage, however I'm not sure the benefits outweigh the pain endured during the bending, twisting, pinching, kneading and thwacking. I have come to the conclusion that it is not the sort of massage that someone with an incredibly low pain threshold should have. Consequently, we both tried the aromatherapy oil body massage which promised 'a relaxing, soothing and gentle massage with specially blended oils'. Just what the doctor ordered.

We were ushered up the stairs to a cool, quiet lobby area where we exchanged our shoes for soft sandals and followed the sweet looking Thai woman to a large room with two beds and two showers. The therapist asked us to shower and left the room. I quickly jumped in the state-of-the-art shower - one of those which shoots water out from about ten different points - rinsed all over and jumped out again. The Husband decided to take his time, luxuriating in the high-tech shower. I pointed out to him more than once that it's only supposed to be a quick shower to wash off any creams that you might have on your body and that the therapists would be coming back in very soon. Did he listen to me? No. And for that, he was caught by the returning therapist with the little pants they had given us to wear half-way down his bottom. Cue embarrassed laughs from all except me who just laughed. A lot.

The massage itself was utter bliss. The therapist found the knot in my shoulder and kneaded it out and the whole thing was so relaxing I almost fell asleep several times which, in my opinion, is an indicator of a brilliant massage. I was very disappointed when it ended - the 1.5 hours flew by. In fact, I think I may persuade The Husband to go again - just to see him in those tiny little pants again would be worth the trip alone!

Sweet Tooth

The Thais must have an incredibly sweet tooth as they seem to have the need to add sugar to everything. The ready-cut pineapple that I buy from Tesco each week is beautifully sweet and juicy and yet it comes packaged with a sachet of chili-sugar. If I added that sachet to the pineapple I think I'd be too wired to sleep for a week. That and I prefer my pineapple non-spicy! Thais are also probably the world's biggest consumer of condensed milk. They love it. It is added to most of their desserts and their tea and coffee is made with it. In fact, if you buy an iced tea from a market or mobile vendor, they will make a huge show of pouring the condensed milk in, something akin to Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail. The vendors will also proudly display their tins of Carnation condensed milk - apparently Carnation is the Perrier Jouet of the condensed milk world. In my opinion, a little of that stuff goes a long way. Apparently the Thais don't agree.

Dirty Laundry

Washing machines, like ovens, are something of a rarity in Pattaya so most people we know out here take their washing to a laundry. The cost is minimal and your laundry is returned to you beautifully pressed. We are lucky to have a washing machine, even if it is a bit of an eyesore being an absolute tank and right next to the dining room table! Still, it means that I can pop a load in and leave it to run while I'm working rather than having to leave the flat twice to take it to a laundry and then collect it. I try not to leave the flat in the week unless absolutely necessary - I truly am turning into a reclusive writer, furiously typing away and grumbling at any intrusion in the form of the phone ringing or the door being knocked.

If I did take our washing to a laundry, I would not frequent the one just down the road from us. It shares a car park with a few other businesses, including a Harley Davidson shop. This car park is fairly busy, especially with motorbikes which zoom in and out in a cloud of fumes. This doesn't deter the laundry from frequently hanging out its washing in this car park. Yesterday, as I walked past on my way to the gym, I noticed that the washing was not only surrounded by parked cars but had actually blown over onto the ground. Not a good advertisement for the laundry. Bring your laundry to us and we'll wash it beautifully... and then leave it to dry in a dirty car park.

Indecent Exposure

Our local Tourist Police post recently underwent a facelift - nothing major, just a little extension. Nothing interesting in that, you may think, but it was what was added that makes this a blog-worthy event. You've probably already guessed from the photo above just what the Tourist Police of Pattaya thought was an essential addition to their post. I can see that some sort of lavatory would be useful but outdoor urinals? Given that they are also by a rather busy road makes this a particularly odd decision. I saw it all go up in stages and just assumed that they hadn't added the walls yet. That was two months ago. I'm now pretty sure that the urinals are intentionally exposed to all walking and driving past. What I especially like is how someone has hung a couple of orchids in baskets above the urinal, to ensure that it looks presentable to passers-by. I am sure that people will be commenting on that when they glance over and see a policeman urinating.