​"I honestly didn’t mean to knock you out.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Let me get you another drink.”

     “Fair enough.” I light us two Craven As. We’re sat upstairs on the sofa in the Piccadilly’s snug. On the radio is the talented Eua Sunthornsanan and his Suntharaporn Band, playing their popular thirties’ hit, Old Flame. Angel goes over to the voice pipe and gets in another pink gin and an Amarit. She turns up the radio then sits down tight-rite next to me.

     “I guess that could be our tune,” she says gently.

     “What do you mean?”

     “You know, how people associate a song with particular time or place or person. Old Flame could be ours...” 

     “Lucky he wasn’t playing I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts then.” 

     She pinches my arm. “Sometimes,” she says, “I don’t think you’re very romantic, Palm Trees.”

     “Ah, I’m afraid romance aggravates my haemorrhoids.”     

     “You still haven’t said what were you doing out in Bang Namphueng docks.”

     “Paying my respects to the local temple. You should try it some time.”

     “I’m afraid meditation ladders my nylons.”

     “I bet you’re one of those Nordic pagans that are so popular these days.”    

     “Don’t change the subject, Palm Trees. What were you up to? Do you actually have any idea how much danger you were in tricking your way onto the Sparta? Stupid, absolutely stupid.”

     “Well, what were you doing there?” 

 

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