The village is dead.
The lau doesn't flow.
The chickens don't squawk.
The roosters don't crow.
The village is dead.
The dogs deign to howl.
The tokays are hushed.
The felines don't prowl.
The village is dead.
The drunkards have slept.
The shop is now empty
The fat farang wept.
As you may have gathered, the village is in fact dead.
I received some extremely distressing news yesterday evening. I'd just downloaded an audio book which I intended to listen to within the cozy confines of my local watering hole. Audio books are fantastic for local shop use. Drunken peasants attempting to instigate a discussion are effortlessly banished with a point to the headphones and a shrug.
I arrived at the establishment to an unprecedented sight: It was closed.
Closed? CLOSED?!
You're never closed!
How dare you fucking close in my presence!
Well, I can tell you I was having none of this.
I dismounted my wheezing motorcycle and wrapped firmly on the metal shutter.
- I demand an unhindered path to the refrigerator you sadistic bastard!
Nothing. Not a word one.
The sanctity of the book and beveraging hour had been irredeemably besmirched.
I located a wandering drunkard and inquired into the whereabouts of the shopkeeper.
Through a fog of ya-dong fumes I was able to unravel the fact that he'd had a motorcycle accident and broken his leg.
Selfish! Totally fucking selfish! A complete lack of affinity concerning the wants and needs of others.
I've just visited him in hospital with a get well soon card. And I do mean soon.
Because the village, well, the village is dead.