Friday Photo

Giant trainers for sale in Emporium.

The best medicine

It's impossible to stay sad in Bangkok.

I had a couple of errands to do yesterday. The first job took me to the heart of Ratchaprasong, Bangkok's shopping district. This area was where the Red Shirts made their camp. The 'Together We Can' campaign, instigated by the Bangkok Metropolitan Administration attempted to liven up central Bangkok have been promoting all kinds of projects over recent weeks. A couple of weekends ago, Silom became a walking street full of market vendors; Ratchaprasong saw volunteers planting up some of the areas that had been damaged during the unrest.

Yesterday, outside Amarin mall, were was another shopping promotion going on: big signs boasted 70 - 80 % off and there were some night market stalls along the pavement. I was on the walkway when I spotted this video opportunity.

Something went wrong in the uploading to YouTube process so I've lost the sound but you'll still see why I couldn't help but feel happy. (Any shaking of the camera will be due to my laughter.)

I love this place.

Stories

I’m sure you’re dying to know how the hunt for treasury tags in Bangkok went last week. Not. But I’m going to tell you anyway  (there's always the off button) because it reminds me of another story from a life time ago when I lived in London during a gap year between school and university.

But first, back to Bangkok. I went to my local office supplies store, armed with a photograph of treasury tags, knowing perfectly well you DON’T attempt such a foolhardy task without photographic evidence. How many times have I attempted verbal only communication? A recent conversation in the Apple computer shop went something like this:

Me: Do you have an itornado cable?
Her: iTunes?
Me: No, itornado? To move data between a PC and a Mac.
Her: iTunes?
Me: No, I-T-O-R-N-A-D-O (slowly and clearly)
Her: iTunes?

So you get the picture. This is no-one’s fault but mine. My Thai will get me food, find the loo and give directions to the taxi to get me home while chatting about my family; and thereabouts it stops.

Back in the office supply shop, she peers at my picture; she leans across and shows it to her colleague and they both look puzzled. Then a light comes on and she points at the treasury tag and says “you want this?” “Yes” I say. So I follow her across the shop, dodging customers and displays of stationery. “There!” She says, pointing to the balls of string: treasury tags without the hard bit. *sigh*

It reminded me of another occasion when I was eighteen, and living in what, in those days, wasn’t über trendy Notting Hill Gate. I can’t remember anything else about the dinner party we were having except the shopping trip. Up the road in the supermarket, we’d got all the ingredients except the bouquet garni. When we asked for help the shop assistant looked blank. I grew up with cooks so I knew what they were, but not everyone would, so I explained: “it’s a mixture of different herbs,” I said, “and they sell them in what looks like a teabag.” She thought for a while and then she said: “Well, the herbs are in aisle 4 and the teabags are in aisle 11.”

So, you know what? It’s not just in Thailand.

Friday Photo: Mooo

I called and called. "Kor-tord Ka!" I said, "Excuse me!"

But that cow was on a mission.

It ignored me.

Perhaps it didn't speak Thai?

Anyway, it seemed to know where it was going.

Is it just me, or does it look like it needs the loo?

Pratunam Pussy Cats

Pratunam Market is where the ladyboys get their costumes made. I was looking for feathers... for the Melbourne Cup.

I was meant to be shopping but I got distracted.

The bottom cat is my favourite; he's finished his bowl of soup and he was so full, he just couldn't move too far... Oh, here looks like a good place to sleep.

Which one is your favourite?

Sunday word count

How I’ve got any words written this week is a minor bloomin’ miracle. First there was the expedition of getting Son ready for the expedition; then Sampeng Lane in Chinatown (which I will post about tomorrow) and finally the purchasing of a dress for Daughter for a ‘do’ on Friday.

I told Daughter I would come to the shopping centre on condition that I would write while she shopped … Starbucks would do its magic, turning me into a writing dervish while she shopped and her feet got worn out and then I would approve the dress and pay.

We went to MBK: I settled myself at Starbucks.

After about thirty minutes she returned because the zip on her shorts was stuck (won’t go up; won’t go down.) She went off to find something cheap to buy to change into; she came because she’d found some shorts and needed the money, and then she returned with the change, she returned again to show me what the shorts look like on. Then she went off shopping again. Fifteen minutes later, she came back because she was hungry so we went off for lunch. And finally, after lunch she disappeared shopping again; fifteen minutes later she came back to say ‘MBK hasn’t got anything.’

So we went to another mall and I settled myself down at the second choice of Starbucks because my normal one was full. She found a frock but I wondered if the whole thing had been a tactic as I was a bit unsure about the dress’ suitability but I was so ground down I couldn’t argue.

I’d written 93 words in four hours.

So Sheepish, I won’t have beaten you this Sunday unless you’ve also been madly busy. It’s a bit pitiful but I have managed my minimum (500 words five times a week.) This week my word count is 2642.

Twit

Oh good grief. In pursuit of the ‘essential items’ as dictated by school, Daughter and I went to MBK this afternoon.

MBK is one of the malls I will miss desperately when we eventually go home. It’s rather like a market in a mall – the shops are mostly small units, rentable individually or in multiples to make a big, ‘proper’ shop.

We were downstairs where the units are mostly individually let. We were tired; only one item remained on our list. Daughter was inside the tiny, cramped shop examining the thing we wanted. I stood outside, where more goods spilled out. In front of me there was a suitcase for sale and I rested my bag there while I opened it up to check out the spondulics situation.

“Oh,” I said to Daughter, “I don’t have enough money. I need to go to the cash point.” I went off in search of a money machine, found one and then made my way back to the unit. I was gone around five minutes. There, sitting on the top of the suitcase outside the shop, was my handbag, open, proudly displaying a camera, a Blackberry and all manner of detritus we women carry around with us.

I am still flushing hot and cold at my stupidity (and good luck.)

Your mission, should you choose to accept it...

I've got secret mission. It’s actually my second assignment of this type and the last one was most definitely a secret. We’ll call him Man A. He was my employer for the first operation. He was visiting my Husband and had, to his chagrin, been told by his Significant Other to come home with a ‘designer bag.’

I was having a beer with them in the night market when the mission came up. He hadn’t bothered to find out what she wanted and felt anything would do (Oh no, Man A, that is most certainly NOT the case). Husband (mine), cynical well trained as he is, laughed out loud at his disillusioned colleague. Trying to squeeze more information out of him than, ‘something black and designery’ I was given a woefully inadequate budget. Cue Husband (mine) laughing out loud again.

I was eventually dispatched into the market with a vague brief (honestly, anything I got would be better than that half witted, beer drinking man) and a more realistic budget. All seemed to be well. Bag was procured and I never heard anything else: Mission accomplished, I believe. Back at the beer drinking, I did relentlessly tease Man A that I’d hidden a little note inside telling his Significant Other that I, and not half wit man, had purchased the bag. I can guarantee that Man A spent half the night searching through the pockets of our purchase to ensure that Significant Other never knew I was involved.

So cue second mission. This one arose last Saturday with new colleagues in town and entails the procurement of my favourite ‘make’. Man B seemed happy enough for me to do the shopping. I was happy with the mission: emails were dispatched home regarding designs and colours (I don’t know if my part in the shopping is being discussed) and I’ve spent some of the weekend compiling a dossier…Man B has a hold on reality and has put forward a good budget. Tomorrow I make the hit.

So my question is this: if your Significant Other is on business somewhere famous for certain products and you really wanted him to come home with something for you, how would you feel about the situation? Would you mind him getting an ‘expert’ involved? Or would you rather he did the choosing and you risk getting something horrible?

The road to Hell...

I really did mean to blog every day in the UK. I wish I could say I’ve been writing, but I haven’t, however I have however got the plot – mostly – of book two. It came unbidden into my head and I’m not sure which one I’m going to proceed with yet.

Yesterday I went into London shopping. In between shopping sprees I had lunch with Julia Bell. I did so much damage on my bank account that this morning I got a phone call from the Fraud Department at the Bank asking about ‘unusual pattern of spending.’ Whoops.

I hadn’t managed to book shop though, so today I went into the local town to buy books. I haven’t been able to get Rowan’s book in Bangkok (Why not, Kinokuniya?) And I got a bit carried away there too. Still some of them were 3 for 2… I reckon I’ve got books there for every mood.

I've got a proper seclection. Two have been written by our Rowan Coleman (Novel Racer), some have won prizes, some were recommended, some I read reviews of this morning and I fancied.




I fly tomorrow night, so next time I write, I guess I’ll be in back in Bangkok. I’m sorry about the crap blogging but I promise to try harder next week.