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Jeong Nim Dong.

  Elderly women crawl from out of the gutter onto the pavement which is heaving with bargain hunters. Everyone a well painted and eagle-eyed house wife with delicate stencilled tatooes where their eye brows should be. Today it is windy but warm, and I'm here under false pretenses. The man said  one but he wasn't even there. He said could you and I did. He is suffering from information overload but I've got better things to do with my time. If I knew it was going to be like this  I would have thought twice about turning up. I'd like to crack him hard upon the forehead with a sock full of billiard balls. I'd like to just go home and turn my phone off. I'd like to take the three (ajummas) women who work in here to a restaurant, a bar then a night club followed by a foursome in a motel of my choice. Where in a room with a big heart shaped bath we'd scrub each other down and fuck and suck the afternoon (and our present lives) away.

  I'd like to buy something from the shop next door that's having a closing down sale. The guy outside stands shouting at the top of his lungs. His commercial mantra only being broken by the industrial scream of one 50 cc motorbike after another as they peal away from the corner to make a delivery. I want to head for the airport with my wife and daughter. And be somewhere else until we are all rested and restless. I want to walk down by the river, find a quiet spot, lay down and close my eyes. I want to stand firm; relax and go to taekwondo class. I want to speak like a native. I want to shave, soak my middle-aged bones in a bath house. I want to be seduced, bitten and slapped. I want to hide and i want desperately to run. I want to ask and I want to believe but as yet I cannot quite make that leap.

The Loud Shirt He Wears Is A Crime.

 I thought it was all over but I forgot what makes the world go round; I forgot that all they really wanted was  money. Not my soul or some other irreplaceable part of me. So I can type, make spelling mistakes, swear,extravagantly embellish and twist the Queen's English until it's back almost breaks. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hallelujah!

  So my wife is on the phone and this is nothing new, and news to no one. My daughter, Jessie sleeps is the living room which is our bedroom. She sucks on her bright yellow dummy and now and again rolls from her left side to her right, and a few minutes later back on to her left side again. Since I'm talking about backs, mine has a fertile spasm attack every now and then in what I believe is the Thoracic spine. Though to be honest I'm not that sure, it could be my idiot-ex-pat-moaning cunt zone under reguard attack, from the drugs that in this country you must simply say no to. I don't do them anymore but surely their legacy continues. On we go.

  My wife is off the phone and waltzing around like she didn't just spend the last two and half hours chatting up some old priest of her's in Canada. Flies in the kitchen bothering me with their tippy-toed dance steps, their brogue shoes and bluegrass banjo nonsense. Little Luo choir with bells where their eyes should be serenade me and tell me it's bedtime not kerouac 'a clock. But what do they know the golden throated interlopers. I'm tired but that's my business. If there's one thing I hate it's Kenyan accapella groups with visions of grandeur. That and having to have dinner with my boss, her husband and my colleagues, when really what we all really want to do is go home early. Why else do middle school students have exams?