An attempted murder at The Goethe Institut

 And just like that the temperature in Bangkok soars back to its habitual 'steam laundry' ambient temperature.  Trudging round the southern edge of the lake in front of the Queen Sirikit National Convention Centre in the early morning makes me appreciate how lucky we've been to get 4 balmy days in a row over Christmas. My fellow morning exercisers are a mixed bunch. Shapely female Thai forms swathed head to food in spandex and lycra with complicate head coverings and face masks - to protect, I presume, their delicate porcelain-like complexion from the sun - gives one the impression of being on a Star Wars film set. In the interests of public decency, I try to balance exposure with decorum in my walking attire. Despite a month of walking in the blazing sunshine, my friends at NASA tell me my knees are still white enough to be clearly visible from space. Not everyone is blessed with the same consideration.  Why do corpulent Western males above the age of 50 feel that they need to share their flabby, lager-soaked, sagging frames with the rest of humanity? Do they really think that stained shorts and a string vest with a faint hint of jaunard improve their look. Still, at least their feet are covered, in most cases, thus quelling rumours of zoo escapes and alien trans-species experimentation. Thais seem to go that extra mile in looking smart when they exercise. Mind you, I think that's the case with whatever they do. Presentation is a big thing in Thai culture and - and I just guessing here - seems to closely connected with maintaining 'face'.

Turning my eyes aware from the sun glare of the convention centre's massive glass wall,  a movement catches my eye down by the water's edge. Basking on the rapidly warming concrete is a water monitor lizard of about three feet in length. It's raised head permanently on alert for any possible threat and its finely patterned black, grey and khaki skin glinting in the sunlight.  Warm concrete is perfect to bring their body temperature up to optimum before 'Plop!', something like a fat European with lily-white knees in a bush hat and sunglasses called Philip spooks them and they dive for the security of the water. 'Warning! Warning! Philosophical Reflection Imminent!' I couldn't help but note the contrast between the space age, sci-fi architecture of the convention centre and the antediluvian, pre-dinosaur nature of its lakeside inhabitants.

I shall pass over the embarrassing encounters on my way back to the hotel involving a Breakfast Specials Menu in which food did not feature and jump to lunch. Collected from The Atlanta by Teddy Gaston, talented bassist with Thai indie band, Flaw, general musical impresario and son of my musical genius friend, the late, great Bruce Gaston. It's one o' clock as we join the tsunami-like flow of Bangkok's lunchtime traffic. I realise that I am not hearing voices (again) but that Google Maps now has travel instructions in Thai! Driving in Thailand's sun-kissed capital is not as aggressive as it is in the West but in many ways just as lethal.  Non-confrontation, Buddhist-style, means that you  back down and away other road users until there's a hesitation by one vehicle which is just microsecond too long and is considered as 'an opportunity' by the other vehicles vying for that space. Even if you lose big-time, smiling and nodding is the only acceptable response.  Adopting the traditional London style of bellowing a stream of invective closely followed by leaning on the horn is likely, in Bangkok, to result in the outbreak of World War III.

We turn into the car park of The Goethe Institute. 

I didn't even know that this was our destination and there is a poignant moment remembering that the last time I saw Bruce Gaston performing a programme of Bach and Mozart was in this very building several years ago.  

I get out the car to be confronted with four crows in animated conference presumably about how many of them are needed justify the use of the collective noun 'a murder of crows'.  From the looks of it, that conference will take some time.

My spirits lift as we slip through a wormhole in space and emerge in an alternative reality in which the restaurant in which we are seated is still in Thailand but is decked out in a manner which is 100% Bavarian and Alpine.  The Thai waitresses look charming in their Durndls and the menu comprises a huge Wurst Fest; German sausages of all different styles and sizes; Weisswurst with sauerkraut and sweet senf; Nuernberger sausages each measured to ensure that they do not exceed the regulation 4cm; a vast mettwurst with kartoffeln puree. Bottled beers from breweries across Germany. Well, it is the Goethe Institut, after all. Thais seem to have taken to German cuisine with a passion. There are a number of German eateries across Bangkok like Bei Otto on Sukhumvit which seems enduringly popular.  The highpoint of this cultural nexus is an establishment called variously Tawan Daeng or Rong Bier which combines German food - basically every part of a pig cooked in regional styles including a really good Schweinhaxe and sauerkraut, German beer from its own in-house brewery run by German brewers with a traditional evening of Thai musical entertainment.  Bruce Gaston, for many years, was the master of ceremonies and his fertile imagination ensured that 'the joint' was kept 'rockin'' with a mixture of music and dance that kept the predominantly Thai audience coming back for more, year after year.

Having achieved my short-term aim of becoming more wurst than man, my host suggested coffee by the Chao Praya river at the radically revamped Oriental Hotel. We are about to leave when a neighbouring table of Thais burst into a 5:4 version of 'Happy Birthday to you'. It would be churlish not to join in so we do and much hilarity and good humour results when the guest of honour announces in his best English in the style of 'Young Mr Grace' from 'Are you being Served?':

'I'm 78, you know!'

We return to the car. Only two crows now remain; barely 'an attempted murder', really.

A brief history of time and table service

It was if I'd just escaped from the set of a remake of The Invisible Man!  Trying to gain access to The Bangkok Baking Company part of the Marriott on Sukhumvit, I had to wait for two waiting staff -oblivious to my existence and gentle tapping on the glass door - to finish their conversation. When I finally got through the door they both about heeled and walked off. I relied on my own initiative to find a table at the back of the dining room. And so, the long wait ensued. I Several staff rushed past me over the the course of the next few minutes; a couple ambled; but I remained invisible, apparently. After 15 minutes I thought I'd succeeded in catching the waitress's eye but no. She embarked on a long conversation with a well-dressed couple; obviously wealthier than me. Interim, I noticed clusters of staff around the counter and till who didn't seem to be doing much. After half an hour, it was time for that failsafe of all restaurant reviewers; the 'drowning man' impersonation.  I stood up, raised my arms above my head and waved them. Despite the looks of astonishment, it had the desired effect and I eventually got to order a yuzu kohi soda. Time passed. After a time, some more time passed. Then I got bored with the 'time passing' thing and switched to my default 'people watching' mode.  Two rather large female Americans entered the dining room vying with each other to totally monopolise the time of an attractive manageress. Bless her, she's still probably there. An elderly westerner on the next table appeared to have passed on; he wasn't moving at all.  I wondered whether he had expired whilst a) waiting to order b) having ordered, waiting for this food/drink or c) waiting to get the bill. A chill of horror ran down my back one as I realised that I had still to get through b) and c).  There were obviously a lot of wealthy or famous people or both in on that morning. But as the staff stood on parade for the select few it seems the rest of humanity and their customer base could go hang. Finally, the yuzu kohi soda arrived complete with a lemon slice and sprig of rosemary. At 195 Baht, I am sorry to report that it was certainly not up to the standard of offerings I have got used over the years from the associated lobby and Manhattan bars at The Marriott. Sad to say that a similar offering at Zen Den down Soi 4 was cheaper and knocked this one into a cocked hat.  I drained the glass knowing that I would need every ounce of caffeine if I was to survive my final  task in this establishment; getting and paying the bill. See previous comments about catching waiting staff's eye, invisibility cloaks above. As I a rule, I believe in moderation and will only deploy the 'drowning man' routine once per visit. And still the moments passed.  The poor manageress with the  Eton-cropped American women looked by now as if she was beyond desperation and was now engaged in an 'out of body' experience. I realised that there being barely 250 shopping days left until Christmas 2024, I was wasting valuable time.  I strode purposefully towards the till, handed over two 100 Baht notes - happy to waive the 5 Baht change but was told that the yuzu kohi soda cost 230 Baht. I waited whilst the waitress satisfied herself as to price of the mediocre offering and left. I've eating and writing about food in Thailand for years. This certainly established a new low point for service in my experience in Bangkok, without doubt a great food destination by any measure.

Public hygiene

'Struth!' said the barely sober Australian tourist. 'That's something you don't see every day!' It was about eleven o' clock on a sunny morning and he was reversing out of a crowd of locals gathered by a gateway on Soi Nana. I asked one of the local massage girls what was going on in my best pidgin Thai.

Taking pity on my dismal efforts in Thai, she answered in English:

'He wash him.'

At this point the barely sober Australian tourist added:

'He's washing his cock, mate. Bold as brass, out there on the street!'

'But why the big crowd?', I asked.

'Well...' said the Australian with a suppressed snigger, 'it's f*c*in' huge; I've never seen anything like it. I don't think these girls have, either.'

My breakfast brandies immediately kicked in and I found myself thinking:

'Well; it's probably professional interest on their part; not prurience.'

The thrill of the new was beginning to wear off on the crowd as it parted and went about its business and finally, I was there.  In a front row seat, as it were; confronted by this extraordinary spectacle. The man in question was still going at it hammer and tongs; yanking it one way and then the other, getting the soapy sponge into virtually every crease and crevice before rinsing with water.  Making sure that the head was clean.

The Australian hadn't lied. As cocks go, it was an oustanding specimen. From beak to tail feathers, it was a good two feet. And with bags of attitude!  The reddened wattles and the unblinking golden eye indicated complete avian indignation.  It was bad enough being washed by a human but being washed in front of a whole troupe of humans was more than dignity could bear.  

Cock-fighting is still popular n Thailand. Yes, I know. I've heard all the judgemental tourist crap before. 'Judge not others lest ye be judged' (Matthew 7:1), I believe, is the relevant biblical quote. Cockfighting is heavily regulated in Thailand with the main aim of government policy being to reduce the links with illegal gambling.  To many, though, the interest lies in breeding these wonderful birds; an interest that transgresses classes and regions. Stud birds often change hands for sums of a million baht (£25,000) and for breeders, it is an all-consuming passion.

Some years ago, I interviewed a well-known Thai rock star.  Even via the excellent interpreter, the conversation was a little stilted until, out of the blue I heard one if his assistants lean in and whisper 'Gai' the Thai word for chicken. Suddenly, we were off! Chicken breeding was up there with guitar riffs, attractive groupies and recording equipment. In a subsequent visit, I was welcomed to the chicken farm up by the Lao border where these interests, as it were, were made flesh.

Thamnanthai

The facial grooming problems continue. I am advised by another inmate of long-standing at The Atlanta that I need to head off to Soi 3 on the north side of Sukhumvit in the area known as Little Arabia. Rather counter-intuitively, he told me to look for a foot massage place which, also provides high-quality hair care. Well, I paced the pavement, fending off offers of a very different type of massage, for twenty minutes and I could not find this place. Finally, to get out if the heat, I ended up walking into a barbers and taking a seat in the waiting area. As I cooled down, I noticed that every sign in the shop was in Arabic, the 1970's photos of available hair-styles looked like a Mossad 'most-wanted' list, the icy glare from the staff fell a little short of welcoming and that the background music was a bit more Koranic than I am used too. I decided to leave. 

Back in Soi Nana, I decided it was time for an early lunch and made off at speed to find a restaurant called Tamnanthai which I remembered from years ago.  I remembered the place occupying a quiet corner of a cobbled piazza. With the passage of time, this, the quieter end of Sukhumvit, has become 'developer central' and all such piazza-like spaces have been filled in with hotels or apartment blocks. Often the sub-soi's which connect one lane with another also fall victim to this process. I found the restaurant wedged between the service-entrance side of the new Maison Hotel and a stairway leading to Golden Hands Massage. The ground floor pillared dining room is glass-walled with simple tables for two or four or six diners.  I remembered, too, the elderly maitre d' whose initially rather dismissive manner hides a considerate or helpful soul.  

To the menu!

Eschewing the products of the modern craze for 'craft beers', I went for the traditionally brewed ginger beer from a local kombucha maker. And very refreshing it was..... and gassy. I struggled to stifle the Herculean belch resulting in a sound like someone dragging a heavy wardrobe across a rough floor. The local diners seemed unperturbed and I thought I had got away with it until I felt the pitying gaze of the maitre d' alight upon me. His expression made clear that, in my case, he knew he had a bit of a 'problem diner' on his hands. Still, I managed to regain some credibility with some deft and lavish ordering.... with the help of the helpful waitress. The deep-fried, panko-coated shrimp cakes with honey and chilli sauce were just as good as I remembered them; the pork siu-mai style dumplings were elevated by a wonderfully fragrant spicy sauce. The North Eastern style food of Isaan was well represented. The ground pork Larb Moo was robust and heady with spices, coriander and chilli. I also could not resist the fried chicken with sticky rice and Somtum style mango salad. The waitress had inquired upon ordering whether I wanted the chilli content of the dish to be pitched at 'tourist' (virtually undetectable), Lao (local heat; to be avoided if you're a novice) or Ambulance (for those who either harbour suicidal tendencies or have burnt away the relevant taste receptors from the surface of their tongue and are happy with 'out of body' experiences). If I had had the room, I would certainly have gone for the mango or the durian with sticky rice cooked in coconut milk with either salted coconut sauce or coconut custard, respectively. That must wait for next time. Tamnanthai is definitely worth a visit. Its no-frills yet comfortable setting helps visitors concentrate on the generous menu and extract maximum satisfaction from these carefully prepared dishes. I should add that, considering the quality of the dishes, the pricing is particularly reasonable.

(Tamnanthai Restaurant

18 Sukhumvit 4 Alley, Khlong Toei, Bangkok 10110)

The Green Mile

 The Green Mile

Dr Henn, the mysterious owner of The Atlanta Hotel, was the first to tell me of the raised walkway or 'Skywalk' which connects the relatively new Benjakitti forest park with the older, more venerable Lumpini Park; two green spaces in Bangkok's urban sprawl. The two parks are divided by the Witthayu Road; one of Bangkok's busiest traffic thoroughfares; only a complete fool would attempt to cross these lanes of death. Ten years ago, I was that fool. Having ill-advisedly ventured into the tsunami of traffic, I chickened out half way across, eventually arriving back tearful and shaking and in need of clean underwear on the pavement where I started.  

I had planned to do the 1.25 mile Skywalk early in the morning but, naturally, overslept.  I seem to have exchanged jet-lag induced insomnia for daytime narcolepsy.  By the time I left the fan-cooled interior of The Atlanta Hotel, the Bangkok 'air-fryer' had already been set to 'crispy'. I passed through the hotel foyer opposite and out  the other side onto Soi Nana.  A right turn and five minutes later I was at the gates of Benjakitti Park. Much as I like the idea of a forest park, IMHO a piecemeal approach might have been better. I seem to remember that the area had a number of mature trees which provided welcome shade from the withering heat. Most of these have been felled and a sort of 'tabula rasa' plan has been implemented which, no doubt, in two or three decades or longer will be wonderful with mangroves, orchards, lakes, wildfowl and wetlands but, at present, it looks like the Wagner Group have been through it. Tarmac roads, renovated shells of old buildings and concrete pathways store and radiate heat throughout the day with little respite.  The great thing about the Skywalk is that it catches even the slightest breeze being some 20 feet above the ground.  

The individual who coined the alternative name 'Green Mile' may have been colour blind. True, the walkway surface is green but as you leave behind the potentially green space of Benjakitti, you find yourself walking above a rather charming predominantly brown shanty town, the inhabitants of which have not been slow to take commercial advantage of pink, sweating, overweight farangs like myself providing us with food and drink in a variety of ingenious ways. I was particular taken with the giant roof menu and the bucket and rope which acted both as a means of payment and food delivery. 

Nor are the four lanes of traffic death which comprise Witthayu Road noticeably verdant as you pass over the bridge to the north side of Lumpini Park. I used to use the main gate about 100 yards to the south but, now it's on my morning walk circuit, prefer to amble along the pavement on the shaded north side of the park checking out the astounding array of delicious and cheap local street food. No sanitised, politically correct menus for the farangs here.  Pork leg complete with trotter stewed slowly in a spicy, soy sauce flavoured broth served with pickled greens and rice. An organ meat and offal stall which specialises in turning tripe, pancreas, lung and an array of other unmentionables into wonderfully delicious dishes. There are all manner of vegetable and fruit to be had here. Did I imagine it? Did that stall owner just say 'All you can eat for 50 Baht (£1.50)!' Really? There's another challenge that needs to be taken up. I shall return to that tomorrow!

I circumambulated Lumpini grateful for the shade of its mature trees and the breeze from across the lake. Heading back towards the entrance, a small cluster of undergrowth addressed me in what was clearly a Russian accent:

'You are Engleesh, yes?'

How did the small cluster of undergrowth know? Was it my shorts, my knees (still white enough to be satellite tracked from space), the handkerchief carefully knotted at each corner on my head or the flood-lit Union flag strapped to the back of my head (with apologies to The Goons circa 1963).

'I'm mostly English,' I stammered with as much dignity as I could muster.

'Pliz. Don't be silly', came the response.

The undergrowth parted to reveal a sunburnt, shaven-headed, thin and slightly cadaverous-looking Russian dressed in denim shorts and - rather disconcertingly - a badly stained 'Hello Kitty' teeshirt which had not aged well.

'You are eezer Engleesh or younot, pliz.  Eez not a difficult question.'

I agreed that for the purposes of our conversation, I was  'Engleesh'. 

'I am Artyem..... 'Rashion' from Sankt Petersburg.'

We shook hands and I made a mental note to either pass my hand through a dental autoclave or just have it amputated. My usual over-reaction as, despite the lugubrious Baltic delivery, Artyem was quite fun. We danced around what each of us was doing in Bangkok and what we did for work. It appeared that Artyem found the notion of paid accommodation an insult to his anarchist convictions and had come to an arrangement with the park keepers regarding one of the benches. This, he told me, freed up funds which allowed him to eat. Indeed, he, too, was attracted by the 'All you can eat for 50 baht' street food offering. 

'I only eat once a day' he lamented...... but what a meal it was. While I toyed with my braised pigs foot in broth, Artyem moved from one end of the group of stalls to the other with the feeding efficiency of a cloud of mature locusts. The sheer quantity of food belied his near skeletal frame. When I made my excuses and left, he was in his forth batch of dishes and talking animatedly about the liver kebabs he had obviously lined up next. We parted amicably having avoided discussing the small herd of elephants which had foregathered.  Ukraine, Putin, politics generally, the ever present danger of open upper storey windows in Moscow and, of course, Pussy Riot. The food was good, the conversation congenial but it was too hot to dance around these for an extended period. The Atlanta Hotel beckoned with air-con and a shower. I set off and retraced my steps back along The Green Mile.

Sour curry and cut-throat razors

I spent the early part of this afternoon having a cut throat razor held to my throat by an Algerian man in his early thirties called Aissa. A cursory survey of Google confirmed that if it's beard management in Bangkok (Steady...) you're interested in - and I was - then, there really is no alternative. After three days of slogging around Bangkok's streets with temperatures in the low thirties Celsius and high humidity, I managed to perfect the 'rough sleeping' look in record time.  Whilst I find that a beard provides a certain comfort factor in Northern European winters and attracts cats, the same does not apply in the sub tropics. On the Tuesday when I landed, I was Philip Moss. By Friday, I was Rasputin after a hard evening on the poisoned pastries with facial hair that seemed to be possessed. Emergency 'beard management' was needed and Istanbul Barber on the second floor of Terminal 21 on Sukhumvit was the place to go. Mr. Aissa was the man to see. With traditional Algerian charm and good manners, he set about trying to regain control of my face for me using nothing more than clippers a cut throat razor, a rock steady hand and nerves of steel, I have to say, he did a magnificent job at a very reasonable price. Highly recommended.  

A swift half hour slog up Sukhumvit to Soi 2 and lunch at the venerable Atlanta Hotel.  The restaurant remains unchanged from my last visit four years ago as do the staff. It's always nice see old friends.  The menu has been reduced post-covid from its once voluminous tour d'horizons of traditional Thai gastronomy but still manages the occasional curved ball like the sour fish curry fried rice. The menu helpfully informs us that sour fish curry may have a certain sentimental appeal to those in their nineties and centenarians as the 'taste of their childhood'. It goes on to say that  it has been 'voted the 12th most unpopular dish in Thailand in a recent survey' and that younger Thais 'wouldn't eat it even if it was turned into a pizza topping'!  The general impression given is the younger generation here would prefer tooth extraction sans anaesthetic to ordering this dish. Well, I love a challenge and immediately ordered the 'khao pad som nam pla' in question. The menu described it as mild but I've been had like that before and was braced for a chilli-shaped assault on my palate. What arrived was a delicious and rather homely dish of fried rice garnished with tomato and cucumber slices.  The first spoonful was anything but an assault. No chilli fireworks or aromatic waves of lemon grass or coriander. Here was a dish from a simpler, subtler and more confident era. There were earthy flavours in the spicing that balanced the sour marinade of the fish pieces. Not so much an historic reconstruction but more home cooking or comfort food in its best sense. It was both flavourful and satisfying. If I sound surprised, I really shouldn't be. Even with the reduced menu at The Atlanta, there is still much to recommend here. I'm particularly fond of the pandanus leaf tea sold in litre bottles. The taste of another bygone era (perhaps even 18th century) when refined sugar was hardly available for use in Thai cooking. Pounded coconut and efflorescence of the pandanus plant ('banana tree' to people like me) is added to provide a background sweetness to this livid green traditional beverage which rarely seen nowadays - another recommendation. The restaurant here is residents only but occasionally non guests are let in. The rooms at The Atlanta Hotel also happen to be excellent value for money, functional and comfortable with an efficient laundry and one of the oldest - and best-maintained - hotel swimming pools in the country! The Art Deco style reception of the hotel is a popular film set.

A new pair of feet

 (I had intended that the accompanying photo at the foot of this posting should be of my naked feet in all their post maintenance glory but Facebook asked me to change it.)

To Sukhumvit's infamous Soi Nana, this morning.  On the recommendation of old local friends, expats of my ken, a mildly inebriated but happy Swiss man with a pronounced limp, numerous hotel doormen and the bouncer on the door at The Why Not? Transvestite Bar - my voluminous list of reasons will take up a posting all of their own, shortly - I head to P's Massage - about a well-lubricated arm and leg into this seething cauldron of vice, street food and poorly kept imported lagers.  Soi Nana, pre-covid, looked like a corner of Hell on which The Prince of Darkness has blown his entire marketing budget. Nowadays, this Bangkok flesh pot more resembles a corner of Hull... but warmer... obviously.

Before the 'tsk,tsking' and olympic standard judging starts, let me explain. There is massage and there is massage. One can get you into all sorts of trouble; the other one is rather good for you. Anyway, I needed the latter, especially in the foot department.  As an almost daily walker, I cover a fair amount of ground each year. During another jet-lagged and sleepless night listening to the bloody neighbourhood Koel - a very noisy Thai relative of the Cuckoo - repeat its song ad nauseam, I managed to calculate that, unlike those speccy Scottish amateurs, The Proclaimers (500 miles... Pah!), my feet - oddly shaped to start with - had probably covered around 10,000 miles since their last MOT.  It was time to give the old 'plates of meat' a bit of a treat.  

Mei Mei was a shy, retiring and attractive Thai women in her early thirties. 'Shy and retiring', that is until she gets you into a massage chair in a gallery room with a number of other victims/clients undergoing 'treatment' and gets your socks off! Then things take a very different turn. Have I mentioned that my feet are oddly-shaped? Well oddly-shaped is one thing but as I removed my socks, I noticed Mei Mei's demur demeanor change radically. In fact, her expression reminded me of the first character in a horror film to see the monster.  Mercifully, I am not self-conscious. Otherwise, I might have been offended by Mei Mei alerting all the other masseuses in the building that she appeared to have a client who, from the knees down, appeared to be a badly shaved Wookie. After the pointing and giggling had stopped, Mei Mei got down to business with a bowl of soapy water and what felt like a wire brush borrowed from the cellars of the KGB's Lubyanka to remove dried blood from the tiling. Dear God! As Francis Bacon once said: 'Champagne for my real friends; real pain for my sham friends'. Whilst falling a mere gnat's scrotum short of being real pain, it was pretty intense and that was only the washing part!  Mei Mei is a world class mime and managed to explain to me that I still had 'exfoliation' - the gesture for which looked more like 'flaying'; 'toe nail extraction' by which I fervently hoped she meant 'clipping'; then the actual massage and lotion to finish. 

Suffice to say, I am still mentally and physically scarred from the 'exfoliation' part of the process. No matter how often I screamed, 'All right! I'll talk! I'll tell you anything you want to know! Just stop for God's sake!', the process just went on and on. As my juddering sobs subsided at the end of this, only the 'second stage' of the foot massage, Mei Mei pressed a glass of water into my shaking hands. A large Woods Navy Rum would have been more appropriate.

Next came the massage. How can such seemingly delicate little hands exert such intense pressure? And to such uncomfortable effect? I am told that the foot has thousands of nerve endings. Well, Mei Mei seemed to know each and every one, its address details, family members and medical history. After ten minutes of squirming around like an insufficiently anaesthetised four year-old in a dental surgery chair, it seemed that either my feet were getting used to the abuse or that a sufficient number of nerve endings had been killed off entirely, relieving me of any discomfort.  I was left to recover and whimper in the dark for five minutes while Mei Mei took a phone call. Presumably, it was Bankok Zoo confirming that all of their primates with oddly-shaped feet were present and correct.

Then, the good stuff. Having mildly mentholated lotion gently massaged into your feet has never felt so good. It occurred to me for the first time in the hour that my feet just might actually survive to walk another day.

But Mei Mei hadn't finished with me yet. Adopting a sweet, pitying smile, she patted the low stool in front of her prompting me to sit there with my back to her. During the rigours of the preceding 45 minutes, my neck and shoulder muscles, fearing their body's imminent demise, had managed to tie themselves into  a survey of marine knots. Mei Mei, whose hands never seem to tire or lose their power,  set about the task of undoing these. At one stage, I felt that adopting Alexander The Great's approach and just cutting through the damn things might have shortened the agony but soon there was a distinct improvement. Mei Mei placed my hand on the back of my head, looped her arm, somehow, through the aperture, applied her knee to my thoracic vertebrae and pulled. A loud 'crack' resulted. First one side; then the other. And we were done. Well, I was, anyway... for another ten thousand miles... at least.