I have returned
to the Island after a dash back to Oz. It was cold in Sydney and very cold in
Melbourne and I lit fires to stay warm. My brother also lit fires for me.
Not out in the
bush or anything.
They were lit in
a proper fireplace.
Think Yule.
Think cozy.
It is strange
thinking of it now as my air conditioning is blasting and I am still dripping
from my evening swim.
I have decided
that I prefer hot to cold any day of the week.
I have become a
tropical boy.
I have been
chatting for the past couple of days to my friend Myoki San. Not the real Myoki
San - who is the personal assistant of the dangerous but graceful Oyabun – but
the mysterious and somewhat captivating person I have code-named Myoki San. I
have code-named the person to protect their identity. I should probably have
chosen an alternative code name but it seemed fitting at the time and I am
unable to change it now.
Well I suppose I
could if I want - but I wont.
I don’t know why.
Myoki San has
been moaning about the cold weather back in Australia and she is desperate for
Summer to arrive.
I don’t blame
her.
Sydney is a
beautiful city and was once my home but it is a Summer town.
It is a beach
town.
I miss it
terribly.
Whilst I was down
at the pool I was hailed by my lunatic Danish neighbour Jens. He was with a
tiny and very young Thai girl – as is often the case.
As I exited the
lift in my apartment block and was walking to the pool he roared at me.
“Modderfocker skeepy kangaroo” was what he roared.
“Ah Jens you fat Danish fucker – have you adopted a
daughter?” I enquired.
His crazy eyes
darted from side to side and the little Thai lady suppressed a giggle.
“Ya ya”
the crazy one replied.
Jens often says “Ya ya”.
Sometimes it
means yes and sometimes it means no.
Such is the
lunacy of the man that I tend not to care. I am not sure if it his madness that
causes him to double up on the “yas” or perhaps it is a Danish thing.
I care not a fuck
either way.
“I hope you have not defecated in the pool Jens,” I challenged.
“Ya ya”
he retorted.
In this instance
I was hoping that he saying “No no”.
Jens remains the
primary culprit of the pooh-in-the-pool incident some eighteen months ago. I
was going down for my morning swim when the floater was discovered. It was most
definitely adult sized and came from a meat eater. The police were actually
called, the pooh was photographed from every angle - and was taken away for
what I assume was forensic examination.
I witnessed the
discovery and the entire police examination with some amusement - and suggested
to building management that Jens may be the shitter. Nothing came of the
investigation but Jens became aware that I accused him of the crime and for a
while we were mortal enemies.
I will not
elaborate any further on the incident as I have already written about the
matter in some length in a piece I titled “The Floater”.
The fact that the
big Dane becomes very sheepish whenever I mention the incident suggests to me
that he was indeed the defecator. When he is not working on the oil rigs, Jens
spends much of the time in a drunken stupor poolside and I have asked the
Indian Security Guards of my complex - Raj and Raj – to keep a close eye on
him.
Having the pool
drained of water and chemically scrubbed is a great inconvenience to me.
It really is.
“I have a bottle of duty free Belvedere Vodka for you Jens”
“Modderfokker”
Jens grinned.
I quite often
bring back Jens a bottle of vodka when I travel overseas. The big lug is very
fond of it and will generally drink it all in one sitting. He is a raving
alcoholic and even though he is quite a disturbing and disturbed individual I
regard him as a sort of a pet.
I actually like
him a lot.
When I go to
India I will always get Jens a bottle of Old monk rum. Old monk is a particularly
powerful and very sweet rum that is only able to be purchased in Maharashtra.
I do not drink it
but will often use it in cooking.
It is very nice
as a flambé for a barbequed leg of lamb or as a topping for vanilla ice cream but
it can also be used to strip paint from metal.
I kid you not.
“Dag is cooming soon Skeepy” Jens grunted at me.
He was scratching
his wild and unkempt beard when he said this and the little Thai girl was
endeavouring to cuddle the large Dane. Jens is well over six feet six inches
tall and the tiny Thai girl barely came up to his armpit.
Her little arms
could not reach around the great girth of the great Dane.
“So is our Moomy”
he added.
“Your Moomy?”
I enquired.
“Ya ya”
Dag is Jens
identical twin brother who has visited Singapore before. I found it impossible
to tell the brothers apart and Dag seemed to be just as insane as his brother.
“Your moomy is your mother Jens?”
“Ya ya”
“That will be interesting,” I said.
It will be
interesting.
I am quite
curious to see the woman who begat the Danish twins.
“Let me know when your moomy arrives Jens and remind Dag
that Raj and Raj have been instructed to shoot him if he misbehaves in the
swimming pool.”
Jens looked a
little panicked at the mention of the two Raj. He is quite fearful of them and
I have indeed instructed them to shoot Jens and Dag if they look like they
might shit in the pool.
For reasons I am
not completely sure of, the two Raj are very protective of me. They are however
unarmed security guards and are thus unable to shoot either Dane. They assure
me though that they watch Jens very closely whenever he ventures to the pool.
Jens used to roar
“Modderfokker” at the guards whenever
he rode his Harley Davidson in or out of the complex but he has ceased this behaviour
at my request.
This moderation
is one of the main reasons I bring him back Belvedere Vodka and Old monk rum.
It is like
training a lapdog.
Anyway – I bid
Jens and his tiny Thai girlfriend farewell and I heard him muttering guttural
Danish noises and the Thai girl squealing as he picked her up and slung her
over his shoulder. I then did a careful inspection of the pool for floaters
before I did my slow laps and I am now sitting in my apartment with my air
conditioning blasting.
It is a hot and
steamy evening.
I am awaiting the
girl Myoki San – who is not the actual Myoki San - to message me to moan again
about how cold it is back in Oz.
I am hoping that
one day that Myoki San who is the real Myoki San will contact me - for I have
lost her telephone number and email address and have no way of contacting her.
Even though she works for the dangerous Oyabun I have described in my articles
“Sushi, Sashimi and Samurai” and “Oath” - I would like to one day see her
again.
I will tell the
Myoki San who is not the real Myoki San that it is as hot as hell here and I am
happy that it is.
- For I am now a
tropical boy through and through.
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