The Chastity Belt Weekend

When MS told me she was flying down for the weekend to spend her birthday with me, I knew almost instantly that with such honour, not only came responsibility, but it also meant that for the duration of it, celibacy and commitment were the two new words added into my vocabulary.

My mum subscribes religiously to ‘I Am A Conservative Mother’ and to other magazines like, ‘Conservative Weekly’ and ‘Skeptical Mum’s’. So you can imagine how thrilled she was to learn that MS was going to be staying with us for the weekend. I hear her running to campaign for ‘safe sex’ already and to restock my pile of condoms.

When MS eventually did come, my plan was to not create an entirely new itinerary to fit her liking, but instead, to incorporate her into my pre-existing weekend template; to party. At this point of time in my life, I cannot possibly fathom a weekend that will whiz by without the companionship of alcohol and music. I am incorrigible.

Friday.

I rounded up the guys to herald in MS’s birthday. It was the mandatory practice of champagne and whiskey, with beer thrown in periodically throughout the night to ensure we were consistently re-toxicated.

MS started dancing and I pointed out to Sheena and Faith why it only takes her one dance routine to remind myself why I’m allowing her to be part of my life. Naturally, half way through the night she got pissed at me for some pictures of me and other ladies on my phone. Exclusivity has been a topic she has been preaching, which I’ve never quite grasped the concept of.

I started having beers with Niner at the Members area and we thought it might be a good idea to chat up the two girls that were next to us at the bar. I was already well tanked and the girl was fucking irritating, or maybe she just wasn't pretty enough for me to be attentive to what she was saying.

Me: “I cannot comprehend stupidity.”

The girl turns to Niner.

Girl: “What did he say?!”

I headed back to MS, because I knew leaving her at the dance floor was the best way to have guys swarm in. Apparently, I was wrong. She wasn’t only enthralling the boys, but she had this German lady so hooked onto her, the lady was practically offering to buy her.

GermanLady: “How much must I give to take her home?”
Me: “She’s not for sale.”
GermanLady: “Okay, I have about 200 plus Singapore dollars. I can give you all. I just want her to go home with me.”

The lady was hilarious, from my point of view at least, and she was perpetually looming around us, so much so that I almost mistook her for being part of the group. If she was younger and hotter, I’d have weaved myself into the bargaining rubric and have her take me home as well. She wasn’t, so I was almost prepared to throw Reznor at her.

Saturday.

It was the afternoon of the Halloween bashes and I had yet get my costume. MS was in town, so the mandate now in progress was to get two costumes instead of one. Poks and Totti were already out costume hunting, so I decided that knowing what degree of ridicule they were willing to subject themselves to, was a good bench for me to start from.

Poks eventually settled with a Beefeater outfit and I managed to persuade MS to go as a geisha. I met Giant at one of the costume place and he gave me a brief rundown of everyone else’s gear. From what I heard, I was expecting a ninja, a bunny suit, a Chinese vampire and some evil school-girl.

One thing I hadn’t anticipated was the amount of attention MS was going to get at MoS. I knew she was going to be hit on, but I just didn’t prognosticate the gradation of lame pickup lines the boys were throwing at her.

They were lined and I emphasize, LINED around her and were throwing anything from Japanese phrases to ‘your kimono is very nice’ to ‘must be hot in there’. I’m a guy and I know we know shit about kimonos.

She eventually got irritated at one Chinese boy who was regurgitating to her some elementary Japanese words - which he probably picked up watching his first porn production yesterday – even after her repeatedly telling him she wasn’t Japanese. I stepped in and told the boy the only words I believed he hasn’t heard being said to him all night,

Me: “Fuck off.”

He stared at me as if I was being rude, then realized I wasn’t kidding, so he went off with his friends. And this was a KID, who probably needed a parental consent form to use vulgar words. Naturally, I did a mentally calculation. There were 5 of them and there were about 20 of us. With age, comes superior math skill. That boy is not in my league. I even congratulated myself for bullying kids.

MS eventually got drunk courtesy of CokeWhore and RollerGirl and I warned them that the consequences of her being unconsciously inebriated was going to be burdened on me. They ignored me all the same.

When we eventually got home, MS got all emotional about it being the last night of her holiday and that she didn’t want to leave, so she spent nearly half an hour in the toilet sobbing.

I thought she was being ridiculous but acknowledged the fact that she was still slightly tipsy, so I ignored her. I only realized she was actually upset with me –or my lack of attention- when she said,

MS: “You want to sleep, you can go sleep. It is okay.”

That’s because when a girl says it’s okay, it means if you don’t settle it now, you will have enough shit in the morning to fertilize another Rainforest.

Butterfly Watches Environmental Film

I confess. I’m not the most environmental friendly person you’ll find. I think trees just takes up space where more shopping malls and clubs should be built. I think recycling is a word synonymous with the elderly workforce and the slogan “Go Green” is a campaign to legitimize revenge fueled by jealousy.

I have a “I am a Young Environmentalist” badge, from that Young Scientist program we had in science classes in primary school during my time, lying somewhere in my room. Ironic isn’t it on how I turned out. Well, I never really understood the whole fuss about it. I was 10 and I had huge words like “ozone depletion’, “resource exhaustion” and “necrophilia” thrown at me, that I just assumed I could actually do something about it.

On Tuesday night, Niner hooked us up for the premier screening of The 11th Hour. It was one of those that came with a fancy cocktail reception that was laced with cheap wines and pastries that excluded gourmet pleasantries like caviar and salmon.

Prior to this, I’ve never once heard of the film, let alone know what I was getting myself into. I heard ‘free tickets’ and I never really paid attention to what came after it. Apparently, it was some documentary on the environment or to be exact, the demise of it. I frowned when I realized there wasn’t going to be any nude scenes or heads being blown off.

Some lady came over and informed us that the movie was starting in 5 mins and requested that we made our way in soon. For Christ sake, this is Lido, the movies never starts on time. The commercials and trailers run on long enough for Korea to be unified.

Faith: “Dude, the movie is starting.”
Me: “The whole movie is about dying trees, you are not going to be missing much.”

I pointed at a plate the waiter was clearing.

Me: “Who the fuck wasted a drumstick?!”
Faith: “That would be Scooby.”
Me: “Scooby! The movie hasn’t started and you are fucking wasting food already?!”
Scooby: “It’s fucking horrible..”
Me: “You do not waste food at a reception promoting the saving of the environment.”
Scooby: “Do I look like I’m an environmentalist to you?”

I met RollerGirl by the buffet table.

RollerGirl: “Here for the free wine and food huh?”
Me: “No.. I care for the environment. I signed up at I-am-a-treehugger.com.”

We knocked back our second glass of wine and headed to the theatre, only to find some boring opening speech by some dude from some ‘I want to save the world’ agency. This absolutely bored me. Where is Captain Planet when you actually need him?

Me: “What is this ‘ladies and gentlemen, thank you for..’ *snores *. Get on with the fucking show.”

RollerGirl dropped me an SMS.

RG: “Eh stop swigging lah. Movie start already.”
Me: “Fuck lah, I see this movie everyday. It’s called Tree Pruning. Eh what is this guy talking about?! Shut up and show some tits!”
RG: “I think you’re in the wrong theatre, dude. Lots of bush but no tits here.”

I don’t remember EVER sleeping through any movie I’ve ever watched in a cinema, save for one Mel Gibson flick, but that was fatigued induced and no one runs a half marathon in the morning and still catches a mid-night movie awake. BUT this show absolutely lullabyed me faster than a full snort of valium.

Ten minutes into the movie, which was randomly throwing up figures of rising temperatures and depletion of natural resources, I decided that I already know all this and sleeping would be more productive.

If you took geography at varsity level like I did for a few modules, you’ll also know that Global Warming is a highly mis-interpreted term that people like to juxtapose next to green house effect and other man-made consequence of industrialization.

If you think Global Warming is a consequence of Man’s actions, you are wrong.

I woke up 15 minutes later and the movie was still on the same topic as when I fell asleep. The same idiots were talking, the same agencies were proliferating their campaign to save the Earth and the same charts were showing us that the Earth is dying at an accelerated rate.

I woke up towards the end again and they were doing a summary of the entire movie; Our Earth is dying, save it. I don’t understand why they needed a 2 hour movie to bring across a message that could have been done in 5 second. Niner was apparently the only one that stayed awake throughout this blasphemy of a Hollywood production.

The World is dying, I get it, but it’s not like I can make a difference. The problem lies with the Americans because they are using the bulk of the world’s resources. Look, when America does something about it, I will too.

Here are some suggestions on how to get people to actively do things. Need to start a war? Find someone and accuse them of having weapons of mass destruction, then eliminate them regardless of proof. Need to save the Earth? Move the Americans to Mars. And when they destroy that too, you can move them to Venus.

I tried to watch it, I really did. Even against phosphenes and the countless others who were dozing off, but when I realized how ridiculously dumb it was to be sitting in the cinema watching grown men telling me that cutting trees and driving cars are harmful to the environment, I decided to respond in the only mature way I know; sleep.

Well, if Captain Planet just showed up, everything would be fine and people would not have to be wasting money on dumbass documentaries like this. I mean, Michael Moore was great at documentaries and I’m sure they could have gotten some pointers from him, but to go on a make a feature length visual torture on the Earth? Idiots.

I did however felt bad about snoozing through the film. It’s disrespectful, that much I know. So I did my part on saving the environment. I went home and watered my money plant.

Memories Are Evil

Memories are horrible neuro-subscriptions that exist for the purpose of keeping us miserable. It is the greatest denominator for misery and it only serves to remind you how comparatively shitty your life is now. Simply put, memories are evil. You can disagree, but you are wrong.

You see, this nostalgic recurrence is generally grossly associated with a pleasant event. You think back, you smile, you remember how great that event was and the eventual dissipation of it and your return to reality just makes you a little more dissatisfied with the present.

I’ll break it down for better digestion.

1. They mess with your purse.

Despite common perception that I spend all my time partying, getting drunk and insulting the lesser beings of life, I actually portion a good part of my life to cutting nails, Sudoku sessions in the toilet and daydreaming.

Every night when I sit at my porch, my mind inevitably takes me back to the times I had in OZ. The endless nights just lying outside the garden, the chilling breeze, my hands tucked into my jacket pocket, the cold beer and the mandatory fag. I never could surrender this memory and the product of such is that I always held the nights here in contempt.

I always end up pouting and an impetus to fly off on holiday at the slightest notice. Of course, the consequence for my actions catches up with me every month end. Strangely enough, it’s called the credit card bill; life’s greatest reality check.

Memories are a catalyst for financial destruction.

2. Memories are always better.

Adjunction to the above, comparatively, memories surrender you to an event that is more pleasant than the current phase you are in.

Every time I drive pass NUS, I always recall how great life was in school; the cheap canteen food, the people watching, the great sleeping ambience in the library and a legitimate opportunity to meet beautiful people. Plus the fact that we didn’t have to wake up early and there was so much free time I would have completed watching the entire Days Of Our Lives twice over before graduation. I always believed that those were the best 3 years of my life.

All that just made me pissed at having to wake up at 8am every morning now to travel to a place where till today, has only 3 girls in the entire building whom I would not mind seeing naked.

I can’t see how the immediate by-product of anything that makes you feel worse than you did before, can be good. It’s like watching one too many Rob Schneider movies. Sure it starts off mindlessly entertaining but you subconsciously get dumber and before you know it, you can’t figure out how to switch off the TV.

3. Emotional attachment

Far more than anything else, memories are the greatest emotional blackmailing (self-inscribed or externally induced) tool ever.

Raise your hands if you’ve heard your friends or yourself echo, “but I can’t forget all the good times we had. I can’t bear to breakup.” Now, wave it if you’ve heard me say,

“You are an idiot.”

You have to realize that memories only serve to keep you trapped in that cyclical ward of regression. You’ll NEVER move forward if you choose to cling on ever so prodigiously to memories. Memories should only be reserved for the strong.

The problem with memories is that, people in general facing emotional turmoil have selective memory capacities that excludes everything negative. The phenomenon to only remember the good times is largely fueled by stupidity, which I truly believe is an airborne disease. And it probably explains why people never want to let go.

Sure, you remember the times he baked you cookies or when she allowed you to watch wrestling in peace, but why is it that no one cares to remember the times they grabbed you by the throat or when they threw the ashtray at you?

The reluctance to surrender memories miraculously makes someone stupid without them realizing. You just got cheated on and instead of saying the right stuff like, 'I'm going to cut his balls off', you say stupid things like, 'but I love him' or 'I think I made him feel neglected". Well, one things for sure, you have a First Class honors in stupidity or maybe you just sniff glue for breakfast.

All the ‘but we’ve been through so much together’ shit. Look, they got bored of your whining ass so they moved on. They’ve probably already got a head start with the pussy count or had two dicks in their mouth since, and you are still lamenting over ‘the things we’ve been through’? What a moron.

You are miserable in a relationship and the only thing that binds you to where you are, are memories. They are a mere perpetuation of misery and you really think memories are great things?

If you tell me any of the above mentioned ‘I am a moron in love’ phrase more than once, I will punch you so hard and run away so fast, you’d probably think I was a Kenyan Mike Tyson.

Age, experience and maturity (on the times I’m sober) have equipped me with enough to know that memories are in place to keep us periodically dissatisfied. I’m guessing capitalism is at play or the works of the religious mantra maybe, but no one is really pointing fingers.

When I was young (probably too young to even spell ‘alcohol’ without signing a consent form), I used to think memories were the best things to have when I’m alone. That was until the Nintendo came along and memories just became an opportunity cost.

Pregnancy Cures Insomnia

I might have discovered the efficacious reply to insomnia. Pregnant women.

My sis is about 6 months pregnant and she puts an entire carriage of people on the MRT to sleep every time she steps in. This is quite a phenomenon. I can't imagine how many people will slip facilely into a coma when she hits 9 months.

Perhaps it's a common reflex. I have that all the time when I see fat people crossing the road and I have to forcefully remove my legs from the acceleration pedal. I would run them over as soon as the government gets things right and declare them semi-humans. The things I do for humanity, I really deserve to be up there with the saints.

coming back to the subject of pregnancy induced sleep, I've witnessed this peculiarity tons of times when I was still forced to commute by MRT. A pregnant woman comes in and suddenly the guy across me, who only just seconds ago was furiously button mashing away at his PSP, is now sound asleep. If there was a pharmacist on board, I would have stood up and said,

"I want whatever drug he is having!"

And it's not just him, but everyone else is either pretending to sleep or trying to look very distraught over replying their imaginary SMS. I have a valid reason. I'm an asshole and I'm conducting a legitimate social observation, hence I need the seat.

You see, the problem with morals and civic duties is that there are tacit rules being attributed to them. You know it's only right to give up your seat to pregnant women but do you actually know why?

Is it because they generally take up more space standing than a regular Jane? Is it a physical degeneration that being pregnant cuts down on stamina? Or did your mum tell you so? Cos’ my mum brags about walking up slopes and stairs when she was carrying me in her womb and I suspect that if I get her slightly inebriated, she'll start telling me she went to Mars and back without anyone giving up their seat to her.

For this, I’m taking into assumption that when women are pregnant, they become fatter and since my theorem follows the laws of dexterity as such, fat people = clumsy = will fall in MRTs, they should be given a seat.

The introduction of a pregnant woman changes the entire dynamics of interaction. You are having a decent conversation with your friend. Some pregnant chick comes in and suddenly having a conversation is inappropriate.

You: “Shall we sleep?”
Friend: “Proceed with caution.”

Sleeping is naturally the best denial tactic invented by men. Fucked a girl by mistake? Sleep. Girlfriend nagging at you too much? Sleep. Trying to peep at your friend making out on the adjacent bed? Sleep. Securing your seat on the MRT? SLEEP.

Gracious society? I can only hope so.

Look, I seriously do not give a shit if you perform your civic duties religiously, like flushing the toilet, keeping the toilet seat down or yelling at slow moving people to keep left. BUT, this is my sister I’m talking about and I want her to have a seat. So, if you are commuting by the NE Line every morning, I want you to give up your seat to EVERY pregnant lady.

There only needs to be one asshole and that spot is already filled by me.

Bangkok'ed - Pt 3

If there is ever a need to accentuate the point of the ‘Tourist Preferential’, then you never need to look further than Bangkok. This is one place where the merits of money can work to your benefit and for a relatively low cost for that matter.

When we went to Slim on the first night, the club was grossly packed. It was the kind you could whiff 5 variants of perfumes just standing at the same spot. The only thing that stopped this from degenerating into a gym class was the over-worked air-conditioning and obvious lack of spandex.

The lack of standing spaces also meant the possibility of procuring a table was lost somewhere in the equation of Crowds + Arriving late = No table. My immediate reaction to this is to sulk.

Thankfully, we were in Bangkok; the land of a million possibilities at under a thousand baht. The first entitlement in being on a holiday states that being a brat is perfectly legitimate and free of social backlashes. Hence, we do what every spoilt Singaporean does, Demand.

Niner: “Get me a table. Money is not an issue.”

Aside from MS’s promise of a back rub, this was the most romantic thing anyone had said to me since I got to Bangkok.

I immediately had MS call up a waiter and made sure she conveyed our message to him verbatim. It was a demand, not a request. Now, had this been Singapore, we’d have been told to go fly a kite if only $7 hourly waiters had more guts.

Two things instantaneously exposed us to be foreigners.

1. We were perhaps the only guys there who actually danced. Head bobbing and air punching does not qualify.

2. We were tipping the waiters almost as if the baht was facing a devaluation crisis.

I told the first girl that came up to ask where were from, that I was Japanese and I was the creator of Manga. I was cooking up the most amazing stories and none of them actually questioned the authenticity of it, except for when I said I was 26 (which ironically was the only truth).

On Tipping..

Tipping is the best way to buy services and faux friends. In Bangkok, when you buy a bottle and if you tip well, your bottle comes with a free waiter. It had to be so, because I’ve never seen more attentive service before.

Considering my rate of knocking back glasses, I almost never had to fill my own glasses. There was always a waiter by the table. If he wasn’t pouring us drinks, he would be giving out hot towels. If he wasn’t keeping the ice buckets full, he’d be toasting with us. It confused almost to a point where I didn’t know if I could take him home with us.

If you ever need to know how far 100 baht takes you, a quick stop to the toilet is all you need.

I was there standing in front of the cubicle waiting my turn to contribute my share of ammonia when all of a sudden, one of the toilet concierge comes over to give me a back rub. A BACK RUB in the middle of me half crossed at the thighs, keeping my bladder under control.

I immediately turned to Niner,

Me: “Dude, they give back rubs here for 100 baht. I think 200 baht gets you a blowjob in the cubicle.”

I tipped him a full hundred despite full knowledge that toilet tips rarely warrants anything above a twenty. That turned out to be the best move I made all night, because for the remaining of the night, I never had to queue for toilet. And if I did have to wait, it was almost certain that i was having a neck massage to get through the ordeal with.

You only need to replace them with hot girls and you can set up a Sperm bank in there and make money so fast, OCBC would have you featured for their next ready credit advertisement.

Everytime I went in, that man would drag me right to the front of the queue. I was so touched, I contemplated tipping him another hundred, but I was pretty worried that he would start clearing space for me at the dance floor so I decided against it.

I was so excited about all this that I actually called LB in Singapore to tell him what a dumb idea it was to had chosen Phuket over Bangkok couple weeks ago. The only problem was that I went wearing a fucking chastity belt. MS made me feel better everytime she swayed her hips, but at the intervals where she wasn't dancing, I secretly set a reminder on my phone.

'Come back to Bangkok. Without MS.'

The details of the nights have eroded into pockets of vivid memories. I remembered poking fun at some cyndi Lauper look alike and I was throwing Scooby and Niner lines so cheesy I only needed mushrooms to qualify as a BK burger.

Me: "I bet Girls just wanna have fun."

And I remembered Scooby's passiveness and encouraging him to fuck some whale.

Me: "Dude, you should seriously fuck her (Whale). After yu're through with her, everything can only go up."

Apparently for him, even with alcohol, not everything is a good idea.

They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but they also forgot to add that the drinks are also cheaper, the girls are friendlier and they hop onto bed alot faster in Bangkok
So, tell me what is there not to love again?

Bangkok'ed Pt 2 - The Morning story

“No one gets more drunk than me!”

When it comes to partying with me, the spot of ‘that drunk friend’ should always have my name inscribed on it. This is because I do not entertain any inebriated soul unless of course that person is me.

There are that two typical templates of drunkards that the general population subscribes to. Fore-mostly, there are the rowdy drunks, synonymous with sailors and Liverpool FC supporters. These people loudly proclaim their sobriety and will punctuate their every sentence with ‘drink’ followed by an accompanying expletive, just for impact.

Then there are those who fall into deep sleep before you even realize they’ve finished their glass. These people ignore all queries of intoxication. Their favourite way of announcing their surrendered sobriety is by vomiting, on themselves.

I belong to a third bracket. I’m a dipsomaniac, I confess to being drunk and I always use this to validate my actions. I will admit to being drunk at the slightest chance possible only to indemnify my actions for being horribly mean to people.

Ejecting the hassle of having to babysit sloshed individuals, they actually prove to be some of the best entertainment. Especially so when I’m well tanked up myself and think everything is a great idea, even urging them to walk unsupported.

MS was already beyond the recall of sobriety. I knew this for a fact because she was a human pinball machine. In the brief 5 mins of having her walk unsupported back to the room, she was bouncing off the walls and toppling over the hotel ashtray bins.

I only stopped laughing because there was a woman SCREAMING in the next room. It took me 10 secs for the alcohol to retract from my brain to realize that the couple was fucking and I no longer had any interest in watching MS bruise herself silly.

In all honesty, nothing beats a woman who is barely-able-to-stand drunk and simultaneously horny. It’s like a wildcard. They are unpredictable and you really never know how anything is going to materialize until shit actually happens.

It started with a slow striptease. Part provocative, part teasing and entirely pleasing. I was no longer laughing like the little bitch I was at the door while watching her bodyslam herself into walls. She was no longer the human pinball, but masterful at her craft of seduction, peeling off her clothes with so much grace (and eroticism) that I almost forgot she was drunk.

The skirt fell to the ankles as she teasingly bared her midriff. She inched closer. I tighten my grip on the pillow. And then in a split second, she went from lips licking to having her head bounce off the mattress.

She had tripped, fell face first right into the bed, her head catching the edge of the mattress, snapped back and I suddenly lost sight of her.

She crawled up but the only image that was implanted in my mind on constant freeze frame was the slight winch on her face just before her head impacted the mattress. Without hesitation and chivalrous inhibitions, I did the only logical thing.

Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

She started laughing along with me and I no longer thought it was funny. You see, embarrassment fuels my proclivity to hold on to a laugher longer, taking that away only leaves sympathy. I just hate people when they are drunk. The only obvious solution to obviate further ‘self-induced’ injury was to pad her up NFL style.

The night was stacking up with much induced familiarity to me whenever alcohol is introduced into the bedroom frolics. She was drunk, had bruises that she probably will only feel the pain in the morning and very determined to have sex. I was high, very amused but too tired to want to be fucking anyone for the next 4 hours at least.

On top of that, I was having a bad stomach and if I were to discharge anything from my body that night, it would be shit.

The bedroom bargaining was in place and I knew it was going to take a lot of convincing on my part to persuade her to keep her clothes on.

She: “I want it tonight.”
Me: “You are drunk, I’m tired, you have your period and I have a bad stomachache. We’ll fuck in the morning.”
She: “Period's over. Let’s fuck now and again in the morning.”
Me: “I’m tired.”
She: “You can sleep after sex.”
Me: “I might shit on you while having sex. You sure you want that?”

Apparently even when a person is drunk, being shat on is still very repulsive. I know that for a fact, because her face contorted with so much disgust, she looked like she had a botox malfunction.

The good thing was that she stopped bugging me. I don’t know if it was my threat to reign my fury of fecal matter on her or she passed out entirely from the alcohol. Either way, it worked to my advantage.

The next morning, she woke up to shower and I got woken up cos she was shouting at me to get her under-garments, which somewhere in the moment of our brief frolic, was lost between the bed and comforter. I flipped the comforters off to find the greatest morning wake up sight ever.

There was a huge dark patch of stain on my side of the bed. I didn’t have my contacts on and my high 300 odd degree eye-sight wasn’t helping my visual interpretation either. I started piecing matters together.

1. I had a bad stomach.
2. I remembered farting once. Maybe twice.
3. I slept naked.

Did I? Could I possibly have? This cannot be possible, now can it? Did I.. shit the bed?

I was now facing the greatest dilemma of my 26 years as a man. Do I throw the sheets out the window and destroy all evidence? Do I examine the stain closer? I even contemplated swiping my own ass just for a whiff.

Wetting the bed is bad enough, but shitting on it? I’m pretty sure this would be some customary practice every Monday morning at the old folk’s home when I’m 90, but a young healthy adult? I’m sure this qualifies me to lose my rights as a human. I should be stoned.

Then there was more.

On her side of the bed, there was this long ‘skid mark’, that ran all the way up to the head of the bed. Now surely, I could not have done that. I mean, how the hell would I have shat such a thin line and the only way my ass was going to be position like that was if I slept with my ass on the pillow. I couldn’t have done that, not even when I’m drunk will I be blessed with such dexterity.

It was 10.30am and I was examining the bed and postulating Locard’s exchange principle’s on trace evidence. Some holiday this turned out to be.

Then it hit me. It wasn’t shit. It was blood.

Me: “MS!!!!!!!”

She ran out of the bathroom, still soaking wet, confused and very naked.

Me: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

I pointed to the stains like a master reprimanding the puppy for peeing in the house. She grinned then went back to the bathroom.

Me: “WHAT THE FUCK!! I NEARLY THREW THE SHEETS AWAY THINKING I SHAT ON IT! AND I THOUGHT YOUR PERIOD WAS OVER?!”