What time Por arises I have no idea, but come 7 O' Clock in the evening he wobbles his way back to his little annex and howls incomprehensible abuse at his 14" portable television, and half the time it isn't even fucking switched on. When the cocaphony of colouful wailing eventually subsides, I suspect that Por drifts into a peaceful slumber. Dreaming dreams that customarily feature pint upon pint of lao khao, an assignment of crates each packed to the brim with Thai rolling tobacco, sparsely clad females offering their commodities in the form of stripping down to the bare flesh and bending over, waving large root vegetables suggestively about their peson, and brooms!
Yes, brooms! Por is fucking mad for sweeping!
Come half past six in the AM, if you didn't hear the dolcit sheeesh - sheeesh - sheeese - sheeese of Por going hell for leather in the back garden, then you'd have to sadly assume that he was taken in his sleep, eventually succumbed to the toxins of rice whiskey.
The other day Por approached me, forlorn dismay etched deeply into his weathered features.
I was just about to dig into the depths of my pockets for another 20 baht - 'Por obviously requires a top up' - but he hastily stopped me. This was obviously a problem that the sacred liquor was unable to amend.
'What is it Por?' I bellowed into his good ear. "You need a bird? Get on the back of the bike then, I'll drive you up the local knocking shop." Por had recently been making noises about the barren spell of sexual activity that he was currently experiencing.
But with a despondent shake of the head, abandonment carved into his very soul, Por once again responded in the negative.
Eventually I followed his lonesome line of vision which immediately led to the all the answers for this sudden melancholic mood.
He'd swept his fucking broom to death!
Nevermind, Por. Let's pop over the shop and get you a brand new shiny one. And a vat of lau khao to iron out the stress of it all.