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.
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