Knock Knock Knock.

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Pattaya, 06-04-2008. I watch my TV while outside the rain comes down, a real tropical deluge. I'm dry and safe inside my room from the warth of the weather gods, when KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK some-one is knocking on my door.
It's Mo, soaked to the bone, resembling in my head my ma's poodle after I rescued it from the Dommel, a river in the south of Holland it stupidly jumped into underjudging the river's current.
I open the door letting her come in, I let her take a shower and a nap at my side of the bed.
She needs a break from her hectic time on the boulevard, going with stupid oversexed farang men from the west, making money for Yaa Baa, sending home money for her two kids in Buriram.
When the rain is over I give her my old cut off jeans and a T-shirt, her own soaked clothes still drying outside on my balcony.

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