Every dog has its year

After reunion dinner, The Boy and I braved the madness and made our way down to Chinatown, to watch the annual fireworks.

This was the third year that we'd participated in the annual celebrations held at Chinatown. The first year, I'd idiotically worn a long floral dress because it was the only thing that I had that was new, and was pleasantly surprised by the fireworks that burst in the sky in multicolored sprays of technicolor light. Then The Boy and I got smooshed by the sweating, heaving crowd and staggered back in the wee hours of the morning, lathered in other people's sweat and having produced a good share of our own.

The second year, we'd learned some lessons from the year before and booked a room to watch the fireworks from our own private balcony, before once again hurling ourselves into the frenzied mob of Chinese people that throng the streets of Chinatown.

This year, I thought I had it all covered. I remembered to wear closed-toed shoes to prevent repeat incidents of people trying to amputate my digits with their hostile footwear. I remembered to pack something which was more warm and less sex kitten to wear to bed because appreciation doesn't keep you warm at night (well, not for the whole night, anyway). I remembered to bring toothpaste and a toothbrush, thus obviating the need to brush my teeth with my finger (tried it before, Oral B's better)

But noooooooo. Anyone who knows The Boy and I knows that nothing is ever simple. From getting rear-ended by a Jaguar enroute to begin a one-week stay of sin in the House of Ang, to missing our plane entirely for our trip to Bangkok, and to the recent game of Where-Is-My-Passport, it is a given that straightforward is not a direction known to Slinky and The Boy. Still, Slinky foolishly lives in hope, and so completely failed to suspect that the universe was going to go arse over tit again.

The Boy had called about a week before to make our reservations. The hotel confirmed it. Prior to making the reservtions, The Boy specifically asked for a double room because the rooms, as we remembered from the year before, are about the size of your average postage stamp. The Boy, in an truly uncharacteristical gesture hinting at organization, calls again a few days before, as well as on the day itself to confirm our reservation. All is fine.

So we rush over after reunion dinner, arriving with an hour to spare before the fireworks are due to go off. To be told that we didn't have the room.

"We only have a single room," said the concierge, with an expression that said he knew that shit was going to happen to him, and it wasn't even his fault.

"What?" snarled The Boy. "But I called you a few days ago to confirm this. I specifically asked for a double room. I called you TODAY to confirm this. And now you tell me that it's not available? Please explain this to me," he growled in tones that was more threat than request.

The Boy rarely gets angry or loses his temper. He's usually too sanguine for that. This was pissing him off.

Men are sexy when they're angry. (As long as it's not with you) Rawr.

The concierge, in tones bordering on panic fuelled by ignorance of what actually happened and the knowledge that this was suddenly his problem, babbled something about there having been leakage in the air conditioner for the room that we were supposed to get, and there was only the single room left. In a valiant but futile attempt at covering his ass, he explained that the afternoon shift was the one who had fielded his call and they were probably too busy etc etc administrative babbling etc etc.

I practiced my 'bored now' stare on the concierge for a while then decided to rescue him from the increasingly irate questions The Boy was shooting at him (all along the lines of 'what the blue fuck happened and why is this my problem?') and I asked him if it was possible to put an extra bed in the room so one of us didn't have to sleep on the floor.

No, because the room was too small.

I ask to see the room.

Holy hell.

"Fuck, you could put a midget in this room and he'd say, 'Wow, this room is small.'" The Boy said.

Have you ever been in a room where you could touch virtually all the walls in the room by sitting on the bed and reaching out? After that night, I can answer yes. With a lot of emphatic nodding and eloquent arm gestures along the lines of 'it was this big'. Oh, and given that The Boy is approximately 200 and 6'1", that doesn't leave a hell of a lot space for Slinky on the single bed.

I looked at the toilet, which was made entirely of glass. Because, obviously, it's a brilliant idea to make the walls completely transparent when someone's trying to have a bowel moment. And in keeping with the Lilliputian theme, the entire bathroom is approximately four feet square. I couldn't figure out where the shower was until I looked up. Then I realized that the shiny metal thing was no a light fixture after all.


The midget toilet

We went down again and The Boy tried not to lose his temper. The concierge attempted to try and convince us that all was not lost as we could get rooms in the adjacent hotels (which just wasn't practical if you wanted to see the fireworks unless unless you're a contortionist and your head's the size of a Pringles can, on account of the bars across the windows).

We took the damned room in the end because there were no other options.

Every movement we made was telegraphed to each other way in advance to ensure that we didn't maim each other in the tiny room.

So we got our balcony to watch the fireworks, smoking Djarum Vanilla as the colors exploded across the night sky, The Boy leaning back in the chair he'd dragged out onto the balcony to create more space in the room, and me perched precariously on the edge of the balcony, trying not ash out on the farang walking below.


The Boy, callously taking the only chair leaving me to sit on the balcony. Death by misadventure just waiting to happen.

There was a brief moment of panic when the first fireworks went off and we couldn't see a thing.

"Don't tell me after all that shit, we're blocked?" I screeched in complete indignation.

Luckily after that the fireworks shot high, and we could see, although we're of the opinion that the HDB flats had the best view. Next year, The Boy said, we're renting someone's kitchen to watch the fireworks from.



I spent the first hour of the lunar new year curled up in The Boy's arms, feeling his heartbeat on my skin with my cheek pressed against his chest. There was no sound save that of our breathing and the sound his lips made when he kissed my forehead. Even though his feet were dangling off the bed and even though we couldn't actually move in case we caused the other person to fall off the bed, it was perfect. We nearly didn't make it out of the room for the annual walkabout, but our sense of tradition would have been offended, so we went.

And got these.

Yes, it's a dolphin. No, don't ask me.


Someone wasn't concentrating very hard when they were doing this. It didn't turn out at all like what I expected. Humph.


See the background in the mirror? Yes, that's the whole room. No, you heard me right. The WHOLE ROOM.

We only got back at 6 a.m., and it was agony trying to wake up to lurch back home, where I was met by a very irate set of parents because I had missed the first set of cousins (Thank God. They are the type of girls wear flower-prnt capris with matching kitten heels without any sense of irony at all.).

I zombied my way through the day then met the Honey Trappers, Hot Younger Boy and Hot Younger Boy's Annoyingly Moody Cousin (the kind of broodiness which is not a natural result of serious issues or because they are fascinatingly deep, intense people who happen to play guitar, but is because they WANT people to believe that they are the latter type of people, hence brood for attention). We sang incessantly, talked rubbish, drank, fagged and generally had a good time. I was doing really, really well on the alcohol front until Miss C told me to down the remnants of my vodka-kumquat since we were leaving, and I happily said "Okay!" and did.

I think it took all of five seconds before I said, "Oh crap, maybe that wasn't a good idea."

Miss J valiantly supported me as I wheee'd my way to the main road and endured me telling her that I loved her. I think I fell asleep in the cab. I'm not sure.

I reached home at yet another ungodly hour.

And that was the first day of the lunar new year.

Happy New Year.