Rambling quite literally on Saturday and rambling thoughts in my head. My last full weekend in Bangkok. Above a seething mob of fish in the Chao Phraya River when I crossed to the western bank to walk round old Thonburi and to climb The Temple of The Dawn at Wat Arun. I had been to the National Museum and later I paid my dues and was elevated to the revolving observation platform on top of the Baiyoke Tower - Thailand's tallest building. Below a late evening view along the Vipawadi-Rangsit Road:-
Then afterwards in a little Indian curry restaurant, the waiter wasn't asking me how hot I would like my curry or what kind of rice I'd prefer - instead he was asking me how many Thai girls I had copulated with and the dimensions of my own Baiyoke Tower - the one I keep in my trousers. "Oh Thai girl like older farang. Eighteen. Nineteen. No problem. She let you do it. How many you have?" I must say, I suddenly wanted to punch this odious, perverted and racist creep on the snout but I kept my dignity, ate my curry and went.
On Sunday I went cycling in Rot Fai Park and then walked in the heat to the massive Chatuchak Weekend Market where I bought a couple of presents to take home. I am flying to Cambodia on Friday - as soon as the school year finishes - to see Angkor Wat - the world's largest religious complex and then on on to Phnom Penh. One reviewer speaks of the increasing frequency of tourists being "bricked" in Phnom Penh. Gulp! I'm going to have to keep my wits about me.
In a few hours, it will be exactly one year since my brother Paul died. At his little anniversary event in County Clare, this poem by W.B.Yeats was recited:-
The Fiddler of Dooney
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate.
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate.
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.
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