Once more into the breach
Tuesday found me on a bus to Bangkok for a repeat viewing of Dunkirk. Decided to try a different IMAX sceen, this time in Mquartier. Stepped off the skytrain at 1205, maybe I could make the 1200 showing (movie would start at 1220)? Rushed around trying to find the cinema in the maze that is the mall. Found the cinema, but couldn’t see anyone selling tickets. Turned out to be machine service which I didn’t understand but a charming assistant helped. Then a rush to find a loo; ended up in the disabled toilet and I apologise for not flushing. Found my seat just as “Dunkirk” came up on the screen.
Better video and much better sound than Paragon, and I enjoyed the movie more the second time around; Mr. Nolan is an artist.
Back home on the bus sat next to a young lady who revealed herself to be a ladyboy when he fell asleep and started snoring.
Handbags and durian
She who must be obeyed has a friend who owns a durian orchard, which is the equivalent of an Englishman having a friend who owns a pub. When the friend is in the area she drops off a couple of tonnes of durian and my wife is in heaven for several days while a distinctive aroma lingers around the house. From the latest batch, my wife decided to send a couple of durian to the mother in law in Ubon, together with one of her many surplus handbags. I found her in the kitchen trying to stuff all three items into a cardboard box. When this was clearly a durian too far, but one box was found to just about accommodate one durian and the handbag, although I expect the handbag would have some spiky markings by the end of the journey. After half on hour of fiddling we had two boxes packed and we headed for the bus station.
Are you sure you can send durian on the bus?
Of course, no problem.
At the bus station I waited in the car. And waited. And waited. Eventually she returned with the two boxes we had so carefully packed having been made to repack everything in more smell retaining foam boxes. I gave her one of my looks. She knew.
Bitten off more than I can chew.
There is a passageway stretching round the back of our house. It’s twenty metres long, two metres wide, and covered with pebbles; white on the outside and brown in the middle to delineate a path. At least it was like this when the house was built, but three years of rain and wear and tear means that the pebbles are jumbled up, in some places there is no coverage, and there are weeds everywhere. The outside wall next to the path has peeling paint, and the whole thing looks generally shitty; which shouldn’t really matter because nobody goes there, but something had to be done.
“I’ll get a man to do it” suggested my wife.; but my male pride would have none of it. “Nonsense, I’ll do it myself!” In addition to the male pride bit, I reckoned this project would give me an excuse to buy a wheelbarrow, so I did.
Half an hour into the project I realised I had bitten off a lot more than I wanted to chew. I started to load the pebbles into the wheelbarrow (red, initially shiny) and it dawned that forty square metres of pebbles is, well, a shitload of pebbles. I had also forgotten that the passageway features two septic tank covers, and sitting on one of them loading muddy pebbles into a wheelbarrow for hours on end was not the smelly ritual I had in mind when I thought of retirement. Still, I am committed to complete the very long term project.
One of the challenges will be to wash the muddy pebbles before returning them to the pristine, wall painted passageway. To this end I have invented the SPW (Spike Pebble Washing) deluxe system (patents pending); which consists in a hole in the bottom of the wheelbarrow and a pipe leading to a drain. Pebbles in barrow, spray with water and allow to drain, Genius.
Anyway, I expect this will keep me gainfully employed for a week or so; which is a shame because all I want to do is sit in the aircon and play Witcher 3. Maybe it will rain a lot.