Because you asked for more!

It’s one of those quiet sleepy mornings. No weather dramas, and a little on the cool side. Summer so far has had less bite than usual. There’s an ancient, comfortable smell in the air: charcoal burning in a pot. Sometimes the morning air smells of incense, as there’s a little shrine at the end of the street. The shrine is red with gold Chinese writing outside and in (except us and another Westerner, everyone in the street seems to be Chinese, whether Chinese-Thai or recently arrived), an incense pot, a vase of bamboo, and cups for offerings. It’s also decorated with pretty little gilded paper objects, and peacock feathers. I had been assuming that the shrine was for ancestors and departed loved ones, but I’ve read that the similar shrines you see in houses represent the god who controls the land the house was built on, so perhaps the one in the street stands for the whole street’s divine landlord. I’ve seen a few of these little closed lanes, each with its shrine — they’re like little communities, and I think they used to always have gates. Some still have the gates; ours just has the posts left. There’s still a lot I don’t know about how people live, and used to live, here. So far I’ve been too shy to bother the neighbours with questions, but I really shouldn’t be, as the neighbours are quite talkative, especially the old ladies who seem to make up half the population of the street.

The market by the skytrain station is busy. Food, clothes, jewellery, knick-knacks. A lady comes down the pavement pushing a trolley with a box on it. On the trolley and in the box are three small dogs and a cat. One or two of the dogs are in coats, and the cat, standing on its hind legs next to a dog in the box, is resplendent in a knitted leotard and a strand of pearls. Its expression seems weary and bewildered, as if in its head is the thought that reincarnating as a pet cat seemed like a good idea at the time, and it can’t understand why things went so wrong. But maybe I’m projecting incorrectly and the cat’s demeanour is merely one of aristocratic ennui.

Unrelated quote of the day: “One does not simply headbang into Mordor.”

The sky’s the colour of a TV tuned to a dead channel and covered in more sawdust than a saloon floor (well, you’d need more sawdust than that to cover the sky, wouldn’t you?). Suddenly the stagnant hot-season air gets off its sweaty arse and starts to move. I’m wide awake because some depraved individual decided that 4.30 in the morning was an appropriate time to use a power tool, and I didn’t get back to sleep. Warm wind, humid like a dog’s breath, rips the frangipani blossoms off and throws them at the neighbours. It rips blossoms off the neighbours’ plants and throws them at us. Plik, plik, tender vanguard of rain. Then it’s time to get indoors as the sawdust washes off and the rain falls like watery rocks and the thunder bangs pan-lids in the sky. Up on the roof-space for about 20 seconds to feel the cool mist of the rain blowing over the balcony before fear of lightning drives me indoors again. I don’t know what happens if you’re under a tin roof with metal supports when lightning strikes — maybe you just see all the metal light up — but I don’t want to find out. Expecting the power to have gone off by now, but it hasn’t. (Why couldn’t it have gone off at 4.30?)

6.30 and the sun is up somewhere out there. The clouds are eau-de-nil and the lightning’s pink. I check the balcony to make sure the dranpipe isn’t clogged, but it seems to be fine. Open the balcony door, since I don’t think mosquitos are going to be flying through this. The rain blows past the window, rippling like the coat of some ghostly grey beast. Outside again. Nope, there’s an insect hovering under the eves. Shut the door. At least the windows have fly wire. Water droplets slide down the pergola on a conveyor belt. The light is cyan, like someone fiddled with the colour balance.

The storm’s moved on. I’m going up on the roof to take the air. It’s only supposed to hit 30 today, but it’s already 29, so not sure about that forecast. But we had a weird cold snap a week ago — found myself wearing a jacket and socks.

And the air is good. More pink lightning, a spiky curl that looks like one of these. But distant. Birds and neighbours emerge. Looking down onto the balcony below, I see that one of my mystery plants is getting flowers again. Here’s a photo in case anyone knows what it is:

Then there’s this one — the flowers aren’t showy, but they smell divine:

And the frangipani still has plenty of blossom left. Pink, yellow and white flowers — very pretty. The rain’s a steady patter, the light’s a lovely frail green, and there’s a medium-sized cockroach on the wall. I’ve never seen one that size before, only little or huge. Maybe it’s a baby huge one. In any case, it’s above the termite tunnel, so I’m leaving it there unmolested in case it’s a special cockroach sent by God to destroy the termites.