The looks I did get,...

...the stares I did garner.

The Red Farang, step right up! Watch him scowl, watch him growl!

For all it's quaint dilapidation, Si Saket was a happier place for me thatn the Chiang Mai I now find myself in. Of course, with trademark ingratiation, I did not realise this at the time. Instead, I sought only the quiet solitude of an infant-free bed, a warm shower and the act of holding my Meaw in my arms, warm and naked and beautiful, to my heart's content.

The truth is, though, the bed in Meaw's house was comfortable, irregardless of being situated on the concrete floor, down with the sacks of rice and the rats (no, really). The shower there was warm because Meaw would boil us up a tub of water on the charcoal stove beforehand, every bit as deliciously luxurious as it's 21st century equivalent. And when her son, Jakri, and her Mama and Papa were asleep, Meaw opened her heart to me every night, every witching hour. We loved as long and as hard and as strong in Si Saket as we do in Chiang Mai.

And in Si Saket, it was peaceful. It was comfortable. It was happy. Most of all, there was no Lucky Massage.

My sweet heart often reminds me that that wretched shop that drives her to exhaustion, was the instrument of our meeting, the place in which we began our journey together.

"Be thankful, Jamie. I am"

Yes, dear.

Yet still I loathe that place. For it's malicious little witch of a boss, Luck. For it's leering, feculent customers. For it's hold upon Meaw's existence. For she must work there. She must chat and even flirt with the customers. She must massage their flabby flesh with oil and her own hands. For she needs their money. For a customer who thinks he might possess her one day, will come back again, will tip most generously.

She is true to me. She never sells more than the idea of her body. In the dark, somewhere between slumber and wakefulness, she tells me that she wants only my body and that hers is mine to love and cherish.

I believe her. I have seen every facet of her life, her personality. She has taken me into her home, only the second man - after her deceased husband - to be so privileged.

Meaw's promises of fidelity are worth their weight in platinum...

...and yet still I am wracked with simmering anger and jealousy whenever I go to the shop, whenever I see her working, or merely talking, to a customer.

It is this fact that drove me back to England last time, more so even than my monetary woes; woes that have become much, much worse this time in Thailand (all thanks to yours truly, naturally). Worse still, I am here for two more weeks. She was given a week holiday. I had expected three weeks.

It is also becoming more and more apparent, that giving Meaw her heart's desire will be very hard for me, a vocationally-challenged chud, a poorly skilled drone, a failed writer. In my most maudlin moments, I think of begging Meaw, the love of my life and sole ray of sunshine, to leave me. To seek out a more affluent partner who will not struggle to take care of her as I will.

She says she will never do that...

...and yet I wonder at the better, grander, richer life she could have with someone - anyone - but me.

For some inexplicable reason, she loves me as much as I love her.

And it makes me weep with despair.